


Not a coin, but a die

by UnluckyAlis



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 64,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnluckyAlis/pseuds/UnluckyAlis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman has the Joker, Superman has Lex Luthor, and Dick Grayson? He has Deathstroke the Terminator, an enemy with a rather unusual motive, and a man who's had more influence over Dick's life than anyone can imagine. From the beginning to the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dick Grayson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 1

**|March 20 th, 2003**

**|5:07 pm**

If there was one thing Richard Grayson loved, it was flying. Not in planes or any sort of thing like that, no. At the young age of six, the only method of vehicular transportation little Dick was comfortable with was trains, a fact he believed was unlikely to change by his seventh birthday tomorrow. Or even his eighth next year. He had seen them before of course, planes. He could recognize them, knew what they did, and even a little of how they worked because, as the young boy proudly like to declare to his family, he was a genius. But he had never actually been in a plane. He’d been in cars a few times in the past two years, but didn’t fancy them much. His aunt, however, loved to regale to the story of when he was four and been on a boat for the first and only time in his life, when the circus decided to move long term to America. She wasn’t sure if Dick didn’t like the waves, or the waves didn’t like him. Either way the trip was unpleasant for both. At this he would always question why the waves would find it unpleasant, and she always responded that the sound of him crying scared them. It never made sense to Dick, but being a little boy, he enjoyed the tale anyways.

But that’s not the point. Dick Grayson didn’t like boating, he liked flying, and he _could_ fly. He didn’t need a plane, or wings, or superpowers even—although that would have been cool. All Dick needed was a trapeze, and he could soar through the air. The same could be said of any Grayson, and they all enjoyed it, but none loved it more than the youngest of their family. He could fly from the moment he learned to crawl. Walking and running, such trivial methods of movement, had come later.

After all, he was a Grayson, and Grayson’s flew.

At the moment, Dick was swinging backwards around the taller of two parallel bars, which were set a little further apart than normal. On what was probably his fourth time around, Dick let his fingers slip from the bar before he reached the apex of his swing, and quickly tucked in as he flew back. He flipped twice in the air before extending his legs as he passed under the lower bar, hooking the back of his knees around it. Dick let his momentum carry him once around, then firmly tightened his hand around it so he stopped, sitting on top of the bar. The quick halt stung his hands, and he knew his mother would probably scold him, but at the moment Dick didn’t much care.

Thinking of planes, and trains, and automobiles had somehow got him thinking of Romania, his home country. He had been born in the circus, travelled across Europe with it, his biological and surrogate family together. But whenever the circus went on its annual month long tour in America, Dick would go to Romania with his mother, since his parents decided he was ‘too young’ to follow the circus across the ocean. How thinking of vehicles and flying led him to this train of thought one can really never be sure of, but he was a child, and children never stopped thinking. Their thoughts ran together, one idea and memory jumping to the next through some obscure connection. As Dick sat on top of his perch, he followed one such connection to the aching place in his heart. While in Romania, they would always visit his mother’s Romani family. Despite the fact that Mary Grayson and her son were considered Gaijin, Dick’s grandmother always welcomed them with open arms. Four months before the extended move to America, she had died, and they were not allowed back in to the community. His father’s only family had been his brother, so Dick and his mother had returned to the circus after that.

Still, Dick missed Romania and his grandmother, and hoped that one day he would return and could proudly tell those people that rejected him, that he had stayed away from cats. He didn’t think Gunther and Gurbel, the resident tigers at the circus, counted because really they were so much bigger than normal cats. But, for the moment, he watched his family on the trapeze instead.

His mother and father were swinging from one, while his aunt and uncle were on another. Both women suddenly let go of their husbands’ hands, and passed each other while doing a quadruple flip, before grabbing the opposite man’s hands. They continued to flow through the act, one that he had seen many times before.

Finally, the routine ended, and the elder Graysons let themselves drop from the trapeze, falling safely into the net below, something that they only used during practice sessions.

“Mamӑ, tati, când pot să zbor cu tine?” [ _Mother, Father, when can I fly with you_?] Dick smiled at his parents and slid down from his perch, dropping into his father’s arms. He clung there for a moment before allowing himself to be lowered. Besides flying, and his family, the next thing Dick Grayson loved was physical contact.

Pats on the head, hugs, holding hands, little things like that. This was the reason why walking and running came later. If Dick wasn’t swinging on some sort of acrobatic equipment, he was being held by one of his family, or even another circus member if his family was busy. It’s just something he was used to, and something he would never want to be without.

“English, Richard,” Mary Grayson, Dick’s mother, scolded lightly.

The young boy scowled, and opened his mouth to reply, when he was interrupted.

“Yeah, Dickie, _English_.”

Dick frowned, and turned to face his cousin.

“Johnny, don’t patronize him.”

“Yeah, Johnny, don’t pa… pat… don’t _that_ ,” Dick shot back, the accent in his voice heavy. Travelling Europe, Dick had grown up around many languages. He was fluent in Spanish and French because of this, but English had never really been a necessity until two years ago. He often reverted to his first language, Romanian, in most situations. Although if he were alone with his mother he would slip into Romani, which she had secretly taught him along with some Romani traditions while growing up. Suffice to say, he always struggled with English, especially the larger and unfamiliar words.

Johnny just grinned and laughed a laugh that bordered on a cackle.

“So, Dick, what did you want to say, and in English,” Mary prompted. She knew perfectly well what her son had asked, but she wanted to make sure he could properly speak the dominant American language.

“I want to _zbor_ , with you,” [fly] Dick repeated, proud that he had almost managed to say the sentence perfectly.

“Fly.”

“Fly.” Dick nodded, saying the word slowly as if tasting it. He decided that he liked the English translation.

“Of course you do!” A loud voice interrupted Mary’s reply, and Dick beamed up at his father, John Grayson, and his Uncle Rick.

“And you’ll get to. Let’s see, Mary, what day is tomorrow?” John turned to his wife, a sly smile on his face. Catching on quickly, Mary put on a thoughtful expression.

“I’m not actually sure. Dick, do you know what day it is tomorrow?”

Dick’s face brightened and he nodded vigorously. “My birthday!”

“Oh, so it is,” John leaned forwards and ruffled Dick’s hair. “I think we could stand to tell you your present early.”

“I don’t know, John. He doesn’t really look like he wants it,” Rick teased, leaning on his brother’s shoulder.

“ _Fac, Fac!_ ” [I do, I do] Dick squirmed in his mother’s arms until she set him down, and he ran up to his father.

“Just tell him,” Dick’s Aunt Karla said, slapping her husband’s shoulder lightly.

“Do you know where we’ll be performing in eleven days?” John asked. Dick glanced around the tent, having nearly forgotten that the show in Star City was done. His eyes wandered over to his cousin, who started to mouth something.

“Gotham!” Dick shouted gleefully. It was the first place he had performed in America. Mr. Norton, the co-owner of the circus had taken him there not long after they first arrived to do what the older man had called a special performance, along with a few other of the circus’ children. His memory of the ordeal was a little hazy and, although he couldn’t remember the stunts he had pulled, Dick remembered that the people watching had been very impressed, especially the dark-haired girl that had spoken to him afterwards. The public performance the next week had been phenomenal, and Dick had immediately loved the crowd. His father always said to pull out all the stops for Gotham. You give it everything you have and everything you don’t, because it isn’t a city easily satisfied.

It was a challenge, and Dick loved a challenge.

“And what do we do in Gotham?”

“ _Hrăni_ _mulțimea_!” [Feed the crowd] Dick cried, cartwheeling away until Johnny grabbed his hand to stop him.

“And what better way to feed the crowd then by having the youngest acrobat able to do so debut his first live quadruple backflip?”

Dick paused, brows furrowed in confusion, as he tried to decipher the sentence. He recognized that there was a big word in there, an important one, but wasn’t sure what it meant. He looked up at his family, seeing their eyes sparkle with excitement. So it was a good word, but Dick still didn’t know it.

Finally Rick took pity on his confused nephew and let out a breathy chuckle. “Tu va efectua un flip înapoi cvadruplu.” _[You will perform a quadruple backflip_ ]

Dick’s eyes widened in understanding and he let out a joyous shout as he ran away through the tent, jumping, flipping, and cartwheeling over any part of the tent and stage that had yet to be taken down. All the while, he was gleefully shouting in Romanian about how he would finally get to participate in the grand finale of next weeks’ show.

...

**|March 21 st**

It didn’t take long for Dick to decide that his seventh birthday was by far his favourite. He was allowed to ride Zitka, the circus elephant. Not that he didn’t do that anyways, but this time he had done it _with permission_ , something that was a big deal for him. He had also been allowed to put on his one man circus act for his family, both blood-related and otherwise. Having been taught by most of the performers, this act involved many talents from knife throwing, to fire eating, to acrobatics, and magic. He included a few minor acts of contortionism and would have done sword swallowing, but his mother was very adamant that he wasn’t allowed to learn it. She’d probably have a panic attack if she knew he’d tried it once.

The ‘show’ ended with a furious round of applause from all those present, and caused a cheeky smile to crawl across the boy’s lips. He noticed a group of unfamiliar teenagers watching from the back of the crowd, and they all had wide smiles on their faces as they clapped along with the others. Dick grinned at them and waved.

Out of the presents he received, his favourite had to be a hand stitched toy elephant reminiscent of Zitka. Second would be his new costume for the performance in Gotham, although Dick didn’t actually know what it looked like. He had been given the box, but forbidden from opening it until the day of the show. This had caused a lot of grumbling to pour from his small lips, much to his family’s amusement, but the little acrobat complied to the request with no actual form of resistance.

...

**|March 27 th**

Once the circus had arrived and finished setting up in Gotham, the days leading up to the performance were full of practice sessions where Dick perfected his quadruple flip, and the Grayson’s together revised their normal routine to accommodate for the addition of their youngest member.

At one point during their practices, Dick found that he had let go of his aunt’s hands too soon and wouldn’t make it to the bar swinging towards him. Overall it wouldn’t have been a problem, since the net was below for instances such as this. However, the net would not be there during the performance, and if Dick fell then he wouldn’t be safe. If he fell now, his parents wouldn’t let him join them on the allotted day because of that risk. So it was with great relief that he found his fingers curling around the bar of the trapeze when its forward momentum seemed to increase momentarily, just enough for him to catch himself. Dick grinned, giggling loudly, his panic a moment before completely forgotten.

He caught a brief glimpse of a red-haired girl when he climbed down from one of the towers, and immediately took off after her, having recognized her from the group of teenagers on his birthday. Dick was frustrated to find that the girl had lost him, and continued to wander the circus looking for her, when he stumbled onto a conversation he was sure should not have been stumbled upon.

Dick may have been unfamiliar with the English language, but the inflection to Jack Haly’s voice could be recognized universally as anger. Seeing as old Jack wasn’t one to get angry easily, the young boy was drawn to the train car where the voices were coming from. It was Haly’s personal car. Dick approached slowly and jumped up to catch the sill of the window. He pulled himself up to peer through the window easily, due to the strong muscles in his arms from swinging on the trapeze all his life.

Most of Dick’s view was blocked by the wide back of Jack Haly, co-owner of the circus and the ringmaster during performances. Dick was just able to glimpse a glimpse a suit-clad figure around Jack’s arm, but he couldn’t see much. Instead, he focused on what they were saying.

“You’ve been to Gotham before, I’m sure you know how much of a troublesome city this can be. The unsavory characters that could find their way onto your property.” The man who spoke had a light Italian accent, just barely noticeable. It was an accent born not from speaking a language that isn’t your own, but the kind of accent that came about with spending time with many other people bearing a much heavier version.

“Apparently one already has,” Haly retorted sharply, and Dick silently cheered. To his surprise, however, said unsavory character didn’t react as someone normally would to such an insult.

“Ah, yes. I think I should apologize for that, but I thought it might be necessary to bring him along. Marco!” At the end of the shout, the train car rocked slightly, and Dick crawled around to the front so that he could see the burly man now standing in the open doorway.

“You see, Marco here is one of those unsavoury characters I mentioned, one of many that works under me. Who knows what he and my other boys might end up doing to you little circus.” As the Italian man continued to speak, Dick heard a sharp crash while Marco’s arm was suddenly thrust inside, no doubt destroying something.

“This can, of course, be prevented for a small fee. Not only that, but we’ll make sure no one else bothers you while you’re here. The deal would remain intact for any following visits to the city.”

Dick prepared to do something very stupid while Haly replied.

“I’m not giving you any money. My performers can protect themselves just fine.”

“And what about you?” Marco lunged bodily into the car and Dick immediately ran after him. He paused a moment in the door to see Marco yanking Haly forwards by the collar of his jacket, and the young boy didn’t think twice. He jumped up and delivered a swift kick to the thug’s side, as high as the young boy could reach. Being only seven years old, his kick wasn’t very powerful and the man barely flinched, but it did distract him. Marco spun around and looked down at Dick, who was glaring furiously at a man in a sharp suit with greying hair.

“I protect him!” Dick stated firmly, earning a light chuckle from the greying man. Oddly enough, neither of the three grown men in the car noticed that the boy had a phone in his hand and had swiftly dialed the one phone number he knew.

“You can’t really stop us, boy,” the man snapped, annoyed at the small child that was interrupting his ‘business meeting’.

“Police can,” Dick snapped back, and he held up the phone. “I just call them.”

The faint voice of a 911 operator speaking on the other end reached the ears of the thug and his both. The boss man nodded and Marco lashed out, grabbing the phone and throwing it to the floor.

“The commissioner is on duty,” Marco said bluntly to his boss, glancing at the phone. The grey-haired man huffed in annoyance and stepped over the shattered phone.

“It seems our meeting’s been cut short. It’s a pity we couldn’t do business.” The man tsked in Haly’s direction.

“I would never do business with you, Zucco,” Haly scowled.

“No, no. Just the Court.” At those words Haly stiffened, eyes widening in surprise as Zucco walked out of the car. He paused a moment beside Dick, laying a hand onto his ebony hair. “It would really be a shame if something were to happen to your performers after tonight.”

With that Zucco and Marco left. Not having fully grasped the English language as of yet, Dick didn’t fully understand the thinly veiled threat, but knew that it was bad. He turned to Haly.

“What’s ‘the Court’?” Dick asked, not having heard that word before.

Haly didn’t respond directly, just said something about having to speak to Norton. Dick was about to ask him more about the exchange that just occurred when a loud voice interrupted him.

“Richard Grayson!” The little acrobat jumped in surprise and hurried towards his mother, who was looking sternly at him with her hands on her hips.

“Mama, erau oameni răi-” [ _Mother, there were bad men-_ ] Dick started as he ran towards his mother, but she shushed him before she could even comprehend his words.

“We have the show tomorrow, Dick. It’s time to go to bed,” Mary said, reaching out to take her son’s hand. Dick was about to protest, but a wide yawn cut him off and he immediately grasped his mother’s hand. In one fluid motion Mary pulled her son into her arms and walked them back to their train car. As Dick felt the covers of his bed being pulled up around his shoulders, and his new Zitka stuffed animal gently slipped between his arms, he decided that telling his mother about the bad men could wait until tomorrow.

If only Dick knew how much he would come to regret that decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will feature numerous story arcs, all held in one location. The title of the current story arc can be found in the A/N at the start of the chapter, and I will clearly state when one story arc has ended and the next begins so there’s no confusion. Due to long time planning, there may be some story elements that appear to have been dropped, but rest assured I won’t have forgotten about them, they just won’t be relevant again until much later.


	2. The Falling Graysons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 2
> 
> Romani speech is bold and italicized

**|April 1 st**

**|2:53 pm**

Dick was excited that he got a new costume, of course. How could he not be? But he felt very self-conscious, standing in front of the mirror. It was different from their normal costume, a green leotard with a stylized yellow G on the chest. It was what his whole family wore, and what he had previously worn during acts. But this costume was different. The leotard was a darker shade of green, and the sleeves were shorter. Over the leotard he wore a bright red vest with an R on his chest. What was arguably the biggest difference were the pixie style shoes, or boots as they more closely resembled. They were made of a thin, soft material with padded soles so they were still suitable for acrobatics. However, Dick couldn’t help but feel a little awkward wearing them.

He tugged on the vest, fumbling with the yellow clips to once again make sure they were done up properly, before his cousin called him out.

“Come on, Dickie, I wanna see it!” Johnny complained loudly from the other side of the curtain. Dick frowned at his reflection once again before stepping out before his family. His aunt and mother immediately cooed at the sight of their youngest in his new outfit, while Johnny burst into a fit of giggles.

“You look so funny,” Johnny laughed, clutching his stomach. Rick smacked him lightly to silence him when Dick started blushing, embarrassed.

“You look great,” Karla reassured the boy while Mary stepped forwards, kneeling in front of her son.

“Why is mine diferit?” [ _different_ ] Dick asked, looking around at the green leotard still worn by the rest of his family.

“It’s so that everyone can see you fly, micul meu robin,” [ _my little robin_ ] Mary explained, laying a gently hand on the R over her son’s heart. Dick shuffled his feet, still feeling a little self-conscious, but his spirits brightened.

“Cizme _?_ ” [ _The_ _boots_?] Dick glanced down at his feet and tapped them alternately on the floor for emphasis, causing the folded fabric to waver slightly.

“Because what’s the point of watching a bird without wings?” Mary smirked, flicking the fabric so it wavered again.

“Because everyone _should_ watch me.” Dick smirked at his cousin. He may have been young, but he understood how extraordinarily skilled he was for someone his age, and loved to rub it in Johnny’s face as much as possible. Not to mention he was a little bit of a show of, if his one man circus act was anything to go by.

“Oh, shut up,” Johnny snapped, and the elder Graysons started laughing.

“Come on, let’s watch the show before we go on,” John prompted. All embarrassment forgotten, Dick cartwheeled away towards the red and white circus tent. He flipped and somersaulted around the various acts that were positioning themselves in preparations for their entrances. Several of them grinned as he zipped by, far used to the boy’s antics. Dick stopped only when he reached the flap where everyone would be entering and leaving the main ring. He dropped down, sitting cross-legged beside the standings, in what he considered the best seat in the house despite its low vantage point. Johnny soon joined him, while their parents hung back outside the tent. Being the last act to go on, they didn’t have to worry about standing in the line up to make sure they went on at the right time.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and Gotham!” Haly’s voice boomed from the centre ring, his bright red coat flaring out around him as he turned to address the entirety of the audience. “Welcome to Haly and Norton’s Travelling Circus!”

Dick didn’t listen to the rest of the introduction. Instead, he focused on the performers that were making their way into the tent. Jugglers, clowns, and fire-eaters giving the crowd a small taste of what they would be witnessing tonight. As he was watching, something caught his eye on the other side of the tent. It wasn’t anything bad, but for a moment Dick thought he glimpsed a flash of black and yellow by the spectator entrance to the tent. He jumped to his feet, ignoring Johnny calling after him, and slipped underneath the stands. Being small and agile, it was easy for the little acrobat to make his way around the tent despite the wood beams and supports he had to maneuver around. When he arrived at the spectator entrance, Dick saw no sign of whatever he had glimpsed earlier. It was, of course, to be expected, but he was disappointed anyways.

Heading back to the performer entrance, Dick took his time. He swung along the beams, occasionally walking across them on his hands. Caught up in his fun, he didn’t realize how long he had actually been gone until Haly’s voice rang out calling the intermission. As the stands above him started to shake with the thundering of feet, Dick decided to slip out from underneath. When the area above him was clear, he slipped through the small opening between the seats. He was about to head over to his family, when he noticed someone walking out towards one of the ladders leading up to the trapeze platforms.

The man was large, and vaguely familiar. Dressed in a custodial uniform, but not one Dick recognized from the circus employees. He watched as the man climbed up the ladder, bucket in hand, and for some reason couldn’t tear his eyes away as he seemed to adjust the cables that Dick and his family would be using at the end of the show. At least, Dick thought he was adjusting them.

It was odd, definitely, because he knew the wires were perfectly set since they had been practicing on them for the past couple of days, but the little acrobat shrugged it off and ran off to find his family. It was fairly easy. They were outside of the circus tent, doing small flips and tricks for the circus patrons, as a small taste of finale they would be seeing at the end of the show in little over an hour.

Dick cartwheeled over to join them, earning a few ‘aws’ from the women in the crowd as they spotted him in his outfit. As Dick was doing a handstand, he noticed a small boy a few years younger than himself watching between the legs of the crowd. This black-haired boy was tugging excitedly on the pant leg of a woman Dick assumed was his mother and pointing at Dick. With a grin, the little acrobat strode forwards, walking on his hands, while the crowd parted for him. He stopped in front of the boy, who could only really be around three years old.

“Hi!” Dick said enthusiastically, and the boy started to jump in his excitement. “I’m Richard, but you call me Dick. You’re name?”

The boy’s eyes shone as he replied. “Tim!”

Dick gave the crowd a quick once over, making sure there was enough room around him, then promptly flipped out of his handstand. Tim started to clap and laugh as Dick spun around to once again face him.

“Flip!” Tim requested, and Dick complied, crouching down, then doing a quick backwards flip. Tim giggled and clapped, about to request another flip when his mother crouched down.

“Tim, how about you ask for a picture?” The woman suggested, camera already in hand.

“Yeah! Can I have a picture?” Tim asked.

“Please,” the woman added.

“Please?”

“Yes.” Dick grabbed Tim’s hand and pulled him forwards. Dick’s family had been walking the exchange and quickly surrounded the two boys. John picked up his son, while Rick grabbed Tim. They held the two boys close together, and Dick threw his arm around the younger boy. Mary and Karla stood next to their husbands, and Johnny posed proudly in front of them all. Tim’s mother eagerly took the photo, laughing at her son’s excited face. Mere seconds after the flash went off, jubilant music started pouring from the open tent flap, signalling that the show would be resuming soon. The Grayson’s went cartwheeling back into the tent, the youngest of them adding a few flips and somersaults just for fun.

This time, Dick watched the performance with his cousin, grinning cheekily at Johnny and nudging him every time one of the performers did something that the little acrobat could do as well. Dick had decided long ago that Johnny’s tendency to lord his age over the younger boy warranted eternal bragging rights for every skill he had that his cousin didn’t. It was a playfully vicious routine.

As the final roustabout was finishing up his act, the Grayson’s made their way up to the trapeze platforms, each respective brother with their wife and son. On the way up, Dick remembered the man that he had seen. As he positioned himself between his mother and father on the edge of the platform, he looked briefly back at them.

“Oh, mama, a fost un om—” [ _Oh, Mom, there was a man-_ ]

“Hush, we’re about to start, my little robin,” Mary scolded, and Dick obediently fell silent as applause thundered throughout the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the final act of the night!” Haly boomed. “I give you the Flying Graysons!”

The spotlights doused the platforms in light, and the family waved. Dick, always one for theatrics, bowed at the waist, his arms spread out behind him like the wings robins were supposed to have. He rose from his bow as his father leapt off the platform, trapeze in hand. Dick would forever say that this act had been the best the Graysons ever performed. They truly were flying as they flipped and soared through the air, feeling the rush of excitement that came in those few gravity defying moments where there was nothing holding you up. He loved that feeling more than anything in the world.

In future years, the little acrobat would occasionally blame his thought on this particular performance to be the result of his own grieving mind, wanting the last memory to be the best. Or, at least, the second last. However, Dick was not the only person who would praise the April 1st performance as the best. In fact, the whole crowd was as enamoured as he was. To say they were impressed with the youngest Grayson’s acrobatic skills would be an understatement. Their eyes drawn first to his vibrant costume, then his unquestionable skill. But in the midst of the crowd, two figures watched with more interest than the rest.

The younger of the two, who had come to the show to remember happier days, wore an impeccable suit. His steely blue eyes were analyzing the child’s movements, unconsciously applying their usefulness to his evening activities. The second, in clothes reminiscent of military dress, had a similar idea in mind. Although, his own thoughts dwelled not on how he could utilize such skills for himself, but rather the potential the boy had to excel at his own unsavory line of work.

But none the performers, nor the rest of the crowd for that matter, were aware of the two individual’s intentions, and all remained focused on the fantastic display.

As the routine was nearing its end, Johnny and Dick were deposited back onto one of the platforms, grinning at each other. There was only one thing left, the quadruple flip. While their parents performed their own flips, the two cousins, who were really more like brothers, bounced excitedly on their feet. As John and Mary swung towards them the first time, Johnny ran forwards jumped down, gripping Mary’s hands in a dangerous three person chain. It was as Johnny was released, flipping through the air and grabbing a third bar that had been sent down by one of the circus workers, that Dick noticed the odd snapping noise.

He looked up at the cables over his head, watching them for a moment. There was another snap and he finally saw it. Something had eaten through the cables, and the continuous strain of six acrobats, no matter how light they may have been, had strained what few wires were keeping it intact. Johnny’s final jump had been the last straw.

Dick whipped his head around as his mother started to reach out for him, hands open wide. The little acrobat stumbled forwards, reaching for her as well, but for a different purpose. He had just reached the end of the platform when the cables finally gave way. There was a moment where the whole tent seemed to fall silent, and time seemed to slow, as five Graysons felt that rush of weightlessness in a moment where it shouldn’t have been there. Dick saw it perfectly, their happy expressions slowly morphing to those of horror and fear. He lunged forwards, tripping on his own feet and nearly falling off the platform.

“Mamă _,_ tată!” Dick cried. As he watched them fall, he wasn’t able to close his eyes. Even as the crowd screamed, turning away so they wouldn’t see what was about to happen, the little acrobat couldn’t tear his eyes away. Even from his high perch, he heard the sickening crack of bone on the hard packed dirt floor, saw the blood halo around their body, limbs bent awkwardly.

He wasn’t even sure how he got there, but soon enough Dick was on the ground, kneeling beside his mother. His hands burned for some odd reason, but that didn’t really matter. His palms slipped in their blood as he crawled forwards, crying their names, begging for them to wake up. Someone stepped forwards, placed a hand on his shoulder to drag him away. But he couldn’t leave.

“Nu _!_ ” Dick shouted, and threw himself across their bodies, struggling every second as the man, Jack Haly most likely, tried to pull him back. Dick hardly even noticed as their blood soaked through his vest in his struggles. He didn’t notice the spectators leaving, or the police coming. He was just barely aware of the strongman’s arms wrapped around him, preventing him from dashing forwards to be with his family.

Dick didn’t want to, he _couldn’t_ , believe that they were dead. Acrobats fell all the time. They were trained to catch themselves, prevent serious injury. His family could do that too. But, the trapeze was high, too high, _Gotham high_. And, as always, there were no nets.

Through all this, there was only one thing that managed to reach Dick’s distraught, grieving mind. A soft voice whispering in his ear.

**“ _He won’t get away with this._ ”**

Eventually, Dick didn’t have the energy to struggle anymore, but his wails continued to permeate the air, echoing around the tent and tumbling into the open let outside. At some point, he wasn’t really sure when, he had stopped crying too. His throat was raw and he was sure he had cried enough tears for ten lifetimes. He felt numb as the officer in the trench coat and glasses, at least Dick assumed he was an officer, lead him over to a police car and gently sat him down in the back seat. Dick remained silent, eyes red and wide, as he stared blankly at the seat in front of him. But it wasn’t the seat that he was seeing. Instead, Dick was watching them fall. Over, and over, and over again. He could hear the air rushing past his ears, as if he had been falling as well, and then the sickening crunch and heavy thud as they impacted against the ground.

As the memory continued to play through his head, two more seemed to slip through. A familiar looking man toying with the trapeze wires, and a smartly dressed man speaking in a vicious tone. All of a sudden, the Romani words that had been spoken to him made sense, it was all very clear. _He_ was _Zucco_.

The voice had been right. He wouldn’t get away with this, Dick would make sure of it.


	3. Deals and Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin -3

**|April 5 th**

**|12:03 pm**

“Any living relatives?”

“No. His last grandmother died a couple years ago.”

“And his godfather?”

“That would be Rick.”

“Ah, I see.”

Dick sat stoically beside Jack Haly in a room at the police station. The past few days had been a bit of a blur, and he hadn’t spoken since being torn away from the bodies of his family. He had been ‘graciously’ placed in an orphanage for the time being, until social services could figure out what to do with him. Although Dick didn’t really understand, why couldn’t he just stay at the circus?

He didn’t like the orphanage. The other kids teased and bullied him because he never spoke. It only got worse when they realized he couldn’t understand half the things that they were saying. He had been excited, although Dick didn’t show it, when the commissioner that had taken him from the circus—Dick had overheard someone call him commissioner instead of officer, although he wasn’t sure what the difference was—had come to orphanage to take him back to the station. Even more so when he saw Jack waiting for him just inside the doors. The ringmaster had enveloped him into one the tight hugs Dick loved so much before a stern looking woman, Ms. Kincaid she introduced herself as, lead them to the room.

“I’m afraid he won’t be able to return to the circus,” Ms. Kincaid said after a moment of silence. Dick’s head snapped up as Jack became to protest vehemently.

He couldn’t go back to the circus? But that was his home, where the rest of his family was. He couldn’t just _not_ return.

“It’s hardly a proper environment to raise a child. He needs stability and a proper education.”

“Dick’s been with us his whole life! His parents had been homeschooling him before he could read.” Jack’s voice was rising in his desperation.

“And they are no longer around to teach him. After having gone through such a traumatic experience, what he needs is a good home.”

“What he needs is his family!”

“I’m sorry, but his only recognized family is lying in a hospital bed in a coma. It’s already been decided and arrangements have already been made at a foster home,” Ms. Kincaid said with a finality, snapping her folder shut. How she managed to make a flimsy piece of folded paper snap eluded Dick. “He and a social worker will return with you to the circus momentarily to gather his things, and he will be in his new home by this evening.”

It was cruel, how she smiled, like she actually cared.

Jack pulled the little acrobat out into the hall. He, and subsequently Dick purely because he was being dragged behind, stormed through the station until they found that commissioner man. As Jack started to argue with the man, although he was really the only one arguing, Dick realized with a start that the ringmaster seemed more upset about him staying in Gotham than he did himself. Despite his earlier thoughts of not wanting to be taken from his home, he did have reason to stay in Gotham. Tony Zucco.

A sharp scowl, so foreign on the young face, broke through his emotionless façade. It was true, Dick didn’t want to leave the circus, but someone needed to stop Zucco. Apparently, Dick was determined for that someone to be him. That was why he made no protest to being told he had to stay behind.

He hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation between Jack and the commissioner, but the larger man appeared to have calmed down, and the commissioner was now kneeling in front of Dick.

“I’m sorry you aren’t allowed to return to the circus, but Ms. Kincaid is trying to do what will be best for you in the long run.” Dick nodded slowly, only understanding a few parts of the sentence, and not really caring either way. The commissioner was certainly kind, but kindness couldn’t bring back his family. It couldn’t wake up his Uncle Rick, and it couldn’t bring Zucco to justice.

Kindness couldn’t do anything.

...

**|12:59 pm**

Dick stared around the trailer, the one that just a few days ago he would have called his. Now it was no ones. His eyes settled on the smaller bed in the room, and he suddenly dove towards it, sliding across the neatly tucked comforter. His arms wrapped around the stuffed elephant that had been sitting on his pillow, and he buried his face in its soft side. Dick had been sleeping the last few nights without the comfort of the familiar stuffed animal, and found himself bursting into tears with it once again in his arms. He had just lost his family and, as trivial as it may have seemed to someone else, he didn’t want to lose Zitka too.

He lay there for several minutes, his tears staining the dark grey fur. Why a stuffed elephant was made with fur hardly made sense to the little acrobat, but it was soft and smelled of home and that was all that really mattered. When the tears stopped, he rolled from the bed with the elephant still clutched in his arms and knelt on the floor. Dick pulled open the drawers beneath his bed and started to slowly sift through his belongings.

His clothes had been brought to the orphanage the same time as him, and were already packed and in the car for his move to the foster home. Dick had very few belongings beyond those. Books he had a lot of, not necessarily for the pleasure of reading, but also for learning the various languages they were written in. As Jack said, Dick’s parents had been teaching him for a long time, and since they travelled a lot, languages had been important.

His eyes roamed to the set of shelves built into the wall, thin metal bars stopping the books from toppling off when the train was running. One shelf was full of Italian and German novels, the two languages he had been most recently working on. Dick decided that he might as well continue his lessons on his own, and grabbed one of each. He made sure to take a few photos, slipping them out of their frames and in between the book pages.

There really was nothing else beyond those few things. Toys had never been important to Dick, not when he had elephants and tigers to play with, or a whole circus to use for his own amusement. With the limited space provided in their trailer, he didn’t have the mind to keep any small trinkets. His only memorabilia was the small stack of advertising posters kept at the bottom of one of his drawers. One poster for every show he performed. The collection was actually fairly large, considering his young age, and Dick wasn’t sure if should take them. He decided that, for now, he would leave them in Haly’s hands and hopefully would one day return for them.

With his small stack of photos dispersed between the pages of two books, and Zitka wrapped tightly in his arms, Dick started to leave the trailer. But before he opened the door, he looked to the larger dresser that was home to his parents belongings.

“Richard, it’s time to go!” Ms. Kincaid called from outside, but Dick didn’t move. He hesitated a moment, then practically flew to the dresser and ripped open the top drawer, pulling it out completely. The contents spilled onto the floor, and Dick crouched down while dragging his hand through the mess.

“What was that noise?”

Dick ignored the social worker, instead focusing on his current task. Absorbed as he was in searching for some kind of token, he didn’t hear the trailer door opening.

“Richard, I said it’s time to go.” A slender hand dropped onto his shoulder, hoisting him to his feet, but not before his fingers managed to snag something. As he was being dragged outside, Dick saw Zitka lying on the floor amongst the discarded items, apparently having dropped her during his search. His eyes widened and he duck out of Ms. Kincaid’s hand, darting up the steps and just barely managing to grab the elephants ear before he was pulled back again.

“We are _leaving_ ,” Ms. Kincaid hissed sharply. “I have other things to do, little brat.”

Again Dick was ignoring her, slipping the books and Zitka into the small drawstring bag he had brought with him. He stuffed the two items he had just managed to grab in as well without looking, fearing that he might end up dropping them. He pulled the strings tight and hugged the bag close, not even caring that Ms. Kincaid’s nails were digging into his skin as she pulled him back towards the car. He allowed himself to be shoved into the back seat, absently rubbing the four red crescent marks that appeared over his collar bone.

Dick had been allowed a few minutes for goodbyes before retrieving his things from the trailer. Those few minutes had turned into half an hour, which was partially the cause for Ms. Kincaid’s current sour mood. The other cause? Dick just assumed she was perpetually in a state of sourness, it was just a little worse today. He gave a solemn wave to the gathering of circus workers just outside the car, most of whom were glowering at the social worker for her rough treatment of the little acrobat. They waved back sadly, knowing that the circus would be moving on in a few days. The remaining Gotham shows had been cancelled and Norton didn't want to lose any more money by missing the next shows, despite the protests of both his co-owner and employees.

Dick turned and looked at the seat in front of him, recalling his thoughts from just last month. Apparently he _would_ become familiar with cars before his eighth birthday.

**...**

**|1:47 pm**

The drive wasn’t too long, or at least it didn’t feel too long to a boy used to being stuck on a train for hours on end. Dick spared a glance out the window and nearly gasped at what he saw. He had seen various run down neighbourhoods during his travels, and he was accustomed to the Romani settlements that some people might be averse too. Looking around this particular street, Dick decided this was the worst place he had ever seen. The buildings were all run down and, despite the fact that it was the middle of the day, the street seemed dark. Several rather unsavory looking characters lingered around the street. Dick’s eyes skipped over a clinic as he scanned the street, the only moderately well-kept building that he could see.

“Welcome to Park Row, your new home,” Ms. Kincaid sneered from the front seat. Dick looked to the corner of the street, scanning the green sign there. He took in the letters, pleased that the words ‘Park row’ didn’t seem to be spelled in the confusing manner that many English words were famous for. He nodded, satisfied that he would be able to read them in the future.

Dick hadn’t noticed Ms. Kincaid leaving the car, so he was surprised when suddenly his door flew open and he was roughly pulled out. She shoved his suitcase of clothes into his arms, and Dick stumbled backwards. He would have fallen if it weren’t for his impeccable sense of balance. He pulled out the handle and wheeled the case behind him, drawstring pouch still clutched to his chest, as he followed Ms. Kincaid into a particularly seedy looking apartment building. There was no elevator, so he was forced to struggle and pull his suitcase up the stairs, the bottom banging obnoxiously against the step every time he hoisted it up. Being an acrobat, he did have more upper body strength than the average seven year old. But, he was still seven, at it wasn’t easy for a seven year old to drag a surprisingly heavy suitcase up five flights of stairs.

He bumped into Ms. Kincaid’s leg as she abruptly stopped by a grimy looking door.

“Richard!” She snapped, her tone of voice replacement enough for a scolding. She knocked sharply on the door, and Dick was impressed that the wood didn’t completely cave in at the lightest touch. It certainly looked rotted enough to do so. Heavy footfalls sounded from the other side of the door. When the door swung open, Dick cringed for several reasons.

The first was because the man who opened the door allowed it to bang heavily against the wall, and Dick swore he heard the sharp crack of wood. Of course, in his mind, it sounded more like bones. The second reason was the smell. Booze, drugs, and rotten food. Dick didn’t try to make any further distinctions. The final reason, and most obvious, was the man himself. He was the ultimate middle-aged scuzzball with a Gotham twist. Instead of fat, he had muscles. _Lots_ of muscles. He had a few ragged looking scars on his arms. Instead of grease stains, his muscle shirt had a few faintly pink spots that Dick was positive had once been blood. Overall, he didn’t look like a man who would think twice before agreeing to work with one of those Gotham villains he had heard about.

“This the kid?” The man asked, staring down at Dick. The little acrobat was rather uncomfortable with the fact that he had to strain his neck to look up and see his face.

“Yeah. The cheques will start coming at the end of the week.” Dick turned to look at Ms. Kincaid. He had at least a moderate understanding of what she said, except for that ‘cheques’ part. He wasn’t really sure what a cheque was. For a moment, he was distracted from their conversation by the sound of footsteps. Dick leaned back to peer around Ms. Kincaid’s legs. He thought he saw someone looking around the corner, but then he blinked and they were gone.

“Hey, kid! You listen when I’m talking to you!”

Dick’s head snapped back around to the intimidating man, and he resisted the urge to take a step back.

“Richard, Dean here is your new guardian. I’ll be back in a week to see how you’re settling.” Ms. Kincaid gave Dean a brief nod before leaving. Once it was just him and Dean in the hallway, Dick couldn’t help but start shaking. The man looked scary, and the way he was glaring at Dick almost made him cower. _Almost._ He certainly would have, if it weren’t for the fact that at the ripe age of four he had faced down a rampaging elephant. Surely this couldn’t be as bad as that.

Dick was proven wrong almost immediately. Dean’s arm, thicker than an elephant’s trunk, shot out and his hand tightened around Dick’s wrist. He could already feel the bruise forming. Dean yanked him inside, practically dragged him down the hall, and haphazardly tossed the little acrobat into a sparsely furnished room. Sparse meaning there was a thin mattress on the floor, and a single closet that was probably only there because it was simply the way the room was originally built.

The way that Dick was thrown inside, his heavy suitcase ended up on top of him, and he let out a surprised squeak when it collided with his chest, pushing all the air out of his lungs and most likely giving him another bruise.

“You stay in here whenever I have someone over, I don’t want to hear any noise from this room. You get one meal. Want anything else, and you have to find it yourself.”

Dick was about to nod, but before he had even lifted his head, Dean’s meaty fist had connected with his head. Dick was thrown back, thudding painfully against the wall and clutching his now throbbing head. The room was spinning and Dean seemed to have multiplied, so there were now three of him.

“Do anything I don’t like, and that’s what happens.”

This time Dick succeeded in nodding, the quick head bob accompanied by a sharp sob. Apparently this was something Dean didn’t like, because he marched forwards and hit Dick again, resulting in another cry. Dean’s hand clamped down on Dick’s shoulder, thumb pressing against his collar bone.

“Shut up, kid, or I’m tossing you out. The only reason you’re here is because the lady and I have a deal. Otherwise a little gypsy brat like you would be on the streets or in juvie, where I’m sure you belong,” Dean growled. Dick bit his lip to hold back cry of pain as Dean dug his fingers further into his shoulder. Instead, he nodded successfully for a second time, and didn’t stop until Dean had let go and stepped away.

“Good.” Dean nodded in satisfaction, then dragged his eyes across Dick’s small form, looking between the drawstring bag and his suitcase. “Now, where did she put it?”

Dick protested as the bag holding Zitka was ripped from his arms. Dean opened it and peered inside, then scoffed at what he saw. He threw the bag away and instead headed for suitcase. He flipped it over, dumping its contents onto the floor. Much to Dick’s surprise, it wasn’t all his clothes. Several metal boxes dropped out, clanging against the floor. Dean smirked at the sight of them and gathered them into his arms, leaving everything else scattered across the floor.

“Leave this room at all tonight, and I’ll break your arm,” Dean threatened. Before Dick could make any response, the door slammed shut. He waited a moment, the let out a quiet sob. Dick crawled over to the drawstring bag and dragged it over to the mattress. He collapsed in the middle of it, curled in a tight ball with Zitka pressed against his face, and the two books hold his family pictures held protectively against his abdomen.

It was impressive, really, how little time it had taken for his whole life to fall apart.


	4. Lee's Laundromat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 4

**|April 7 th**

**|4:01 am**

Dick’s eyes were heavy and he wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and go to sleep. Suddenly he felt the lumpy mattress come up and hit him, and he jolted upright. Dick shook his head, correcting his thoughts. The mattress didn’t hit him, _he_ hit the _mattress_. But he absolutely refused to go to sleep, and it wasn’t even because of the nightmares. At least, not entirely.

Last night Dick had woken up screaming and crying because of his nightmares, that sickening thud and crack echoing through his head. His cries had woken Dean, if the man had even been asleep, and it had earned Dick a short beating. Familiar with injuries because of minor accidents on the trapeze, the little acrobat knew his ribs were in rough shape, if the pain in his chest whenever he moved was any hint. Remembering the clinic, he had tried to leave the apartment and visit it later that morning, but Dean had yelled at him again. Much to Dick’s dismay, the man had been smoking at the time, and now the boy had two fresh, perfectly circular burns on his collar bone. He hadn’t tried to leave the room again.

Now, his second night in his new ‘home’, Dick refused to sleep in case he woke up screaming again, which would probably lead to more little burns or worsening his ribs. He pressed a hand to his side, lightly probing the bruised area. His abrupt action of sitting up had caused the pain to flare, and the gasp that had followed only made it worse. Dick let his hand drop back to the mattress, returning to the task of gently rubbing Zitka’s right ear. The items he had grabbed from his parent’s drawer were draped around the elephant’s neck. A necklace, consisting of a simple black cord with an inexpensive but beautiful blue stone on it belonging to his mother, and an old, battered watch that had been his father’s. It was by pure chance that the necklace also happened to have his parent’s wedding rings on it. They always took them off before a show, and Dick had been lucky enough to grab them.

His eyes started drooping again, and Dick did the first thing he could think of to ensure he would stay awake. He sharply pressed his damaged ribs, a whimper seeping through his lips, but it did the trick and he firmly decided he wouldn’t be able to sleep while in this much pain.

“Willing to worsen an injury for personal achievement. A very self-destructive tactic, but resourceful.” Dick started at the voice, hand flying to his mouth to muffle the yelp. He scrambled back, and slipped off the mattress, his head knocking back against the floor. The room swayed a little as he stared at the shadowed figure looking down at him through the window he hadn’t heard open.

For moment, Dick thought the figure may have been his Uncle Rick, having awoken from his coma and come to take him away from Dean.

“You have a lot of potential,” the man, Dick assumed it was a man, said.

“Who are you?” Dick asked slowly, his small body shaking in fear now that he knew it was not Uncle Rick.

“It isn’t really important yet, but I suppose you can call me Wilson. It’s such a shame isn’t it?”

“What?” Dick pulled Zitka close, pressing his back against the wall to get as far from Wilson as possible without jarring his ribs.

“How Zucco will go free.”

“Police look.”

“The police think it was an accident.”

“Ack sident?” There was that word again. Dick had heard it a few times following the fall, but didn’t know what it meant. He hadn’t really cared either, as long as the police were going to catch Zucco. Then, once he was caught, Dick could confirm he was the one responsible for the deaths and hospitalization of his family.

“They don’t think Zucco killed them,” Wilson explained. Dick’s eyes widened, and suddenly he felt his anger bubbling up again, just as it had when he was pulled away from his parents. But this time he wasn’t mad at Zucco, but the police.

“ _Dar el le-a ucis_!” [ _But he killed them_ ] Dick protested loudly, lurching forwards. He ignored the expected pain, except for the small groan that signalled he felt it, and grasped the window sill. Closer now, Dick could vaguely see the man’s face with the assistance of the moonlight. For some reason, he was smiling.

“They don’t really care. That man _owns_ this city, and they wouldn’t do anything anyways.”

If Dick were an animal, he would be growling. They would just let Zucco go, they couldn’t let Zucco go! _He_ couldn’t let Zucco go.

Wilson seemed to know exactly what Dick was thinking when he leaned in the window and whispered into his ear. “But you could do something.”

Dick stilled as he mulled this over. _He_ could do something. The police weren’t going to, so someone had to. Why not him? He didn’t see anything wrong with a seven-year-old avenging his family’s murder.

**...**

**|6:48 am**

As soon as the sun started shining through the grey clouds that covered Gotham, Dick got to work. He already knew he wouldn’t be able to leave the shoddy apartment through the front door if Dean had anything to say about it, which only left the conveniently placed fire escape outside his window. He hadn’t considered it before because of his ribs, but Dick couldn’t wait for them to properly heal, or at least heal enough so he wouldn’t be in pain. Zucco was out there _now_.

Dick carefully tucked his meager belongings away inside the closet, keeping only the necklace (and weddings rings by default) and watch with him, hoping that everything else would be safe, before shuffling over to the window. It was, thankfully, a decently sized window so that he could climb out with minimal struggle just by standing on top of the mattress. He opened it, almost successfully ignoring the wave of pain that came as he stretched, and looked outside. The stairs hardly looked safe, and the ladder leading down to the street would complicate things a little, but Dick was determined and stubborn. As he leaned out, he knocked something off the sill and onto his mattress. He contemplated just leaving it there until later, but decided not to and instead picked it up. A little orange bottle with a white cap, and a hand written note taped to the side. It was, thankfully, not in English but in Spanish instead.

 _Para el dolor_ [ _For the pain_ ]

A little blurb on the bottom instructed him on how to take it. There was one little complication with the lack of water, so Dick just went without it and swallowed the single pill as instructed, face tightening at the disgusting taste as it passed over his tongue. He waited a few moments until his chest felt satisfactorily numb, and continued with his plan. He crawled out the window, hopped down the fire escape, and carefully climbed down the ladder. Dick couldn’t help but smile at the small victory. He had managed to escape the apartment, now he just had to find Zucco.

**...**

**|8:03 am**

Dick had absolutely no idea how to find Zucco. He knew Gotham was a large city, and had taken to exploring the area around Park Row a little, but only ventured a street or two over on either side. He had approached the few approachable people he could find, but the moment Zucco’s name came up in Dick’s choppy English, they would find an excuse to leave. Dick was getting frustrated, but he wasn’t going to give up. He was just considering altering his methods when an intimidating pair of teenagers stepped onto his path.

Dick had always been small for his age, so the two boys seemed especially tall to him. Even though the taller of the two looked a little wiry, he had a mean face and a wicked sneer. The shorter one was a little beefier and glared down at Dick.

“The hell are you doing, kid?” The beefy one asked, leaning down to get a better look at the small boy.

“Runnin’ away from home, I bet,” the other one said. Dick toyed with the idea of not answering, and just fleeing before they could do something to him. His hesitation just made the two boys annoyed.

“Kid, he asked you a question,” the wiry boy snapped, and Dick’s response was immediate.

“Zucco!” He blurted out, then clapped both his hands over his mouth. The teenagers shared a look with his friend before they each grabbed one of Dick’s shoulders, lifted him up, and brought him into an alley.

“What about Zucco?” The wiry boy asked when they had set Dick back down, well out of sight.

“I find,” Dick said, crossing his arms and meeting the boy’s narrow eyed gaze.

“Why?”

“He hurt my family.”

“He hurts lots of families, kid. Just give up,” the beefy boy interjected, waving Dick off.

“No!” Dick shouted, surprising both boys. “ _El le-a ucis și el nu va primi departe cu ea_! I not let him!” [ _He killed them, and he won’t get away with it_ ]

“Kid, we only speak English.”

“Zucco. Will. Pay.” Dick growled, glaring up at the two boys. He looked about ready to punch them if they dared try and contradict him, and the teenagers didn’t doubt that he would. It might not hurt, but it would certainly be a gutsy move. They both straightened up, and their demeanors immediately changed.

“I like him,” the wiry boy said, his sneer melting into a smirk.

“You want to help him?” His companion asked, sounding as if he too was considering it.

“Why not? It’s not like the kid will actually accomplish anything now, but when he’s older? Could be useful.” The teenagers just stared at each other for a few moments, holding a silent conversation, until the wiry one looked back to Dick.

“I’m Jack, and this is Howell. We’ve decided that we’re going to help ya, kid,” the wiry boy said, sticking out his fist. Dick looked at it skeptically. “Bump it.”

He looked down at his own hand, made a fist, and knocked his knuckles against Jack’s.

“Cool. Come on, we’ll show you our secret hideout.” Jack waved the little acrobat forward, and they set off down the alley.

Their ‘secret hideout’ turned out to be very close by. Dick couldn’t read the sign hanging above the boarded up window, but he recognized the picture of a washing machine, and assumed that the building had once been one of those things Americans called ‘laundromats’. Jack and Howell shouldered the door open, and ushered their new friend inside. Dick blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden dim lighting. There were still a few washing machines and dryers inside, but they all appeared to have been repurposed. The lids on the washing machines had been ripped off, and what looked like blankets and sleeping bags were spilling out of them. Clothes and food had been tossed into the dryers, and knickknacks were stacked on top of them. In the corner of the room was a counter, and a rather dishevelled looking girl sat on top of it with a computer in her lap. The soft blue glow illuminated her face, and she just nodded her head slowly as a sign of acknowledging the boys in the doorway.

“Who’s the kid?” The girl asked, not even looking over at them. Howell strode across the room and disappeared through a door in the back.

“No clue. Kid, what’s your name?” Jack looked down at Dick. For some reason, he didn’t want to give his name. He didn’t know if he could really trust these kids, so he decided to lie.

“Gray.” Sort of.

“This is Gray. Say hi, Chase.”

“Hi, Chase,” the girl grunted, her fingers skipping across the keyboard.

“Come over here,” Jack waved his hand, even though Chase couldn’t see the action. Or at least Dick didn’t think she could see it.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“What if he bites?”

“He doesn’t bite.”

“How do you know that?”

“Do you bite?”

Dick shook his head.

“He said he doesn’t bite.”

“… If he bites me, I’m blaming you.” Chase shut the lid of her laptop and slid off the counter, sauntering over towards them. She wasn’t particularly pretty. Not like she was ugly, just average. Her hair obviously hadn’t been properly brushed in a few days, and there were smudges of dark makeup around her eyes.

“So, kid, what brings you to Lee’s?” Chase asked. Dick just raised an eyebrow, looking around the room. He thoughts this was called the secret hideout, whatever that was.

“Lee’s Laundromat, that’s the name of the place,” Chase explained, and Dick nodded, wondering if every laundromat was a secret hideout.

“We’re going to help him find Zucco,” Jack said, answering Chase’s earlier question.

“Do that, and he’s going to die,” Chase scoffed.

“That’s why we’re doing it your way,” Jack smiled, looking over Chase’s shoulder. Dick followed his gaze to the laptop that was left sitting on the countertop. While in the circus, he had used his parents’ phones a few times when they came to America, but their functions were limited to calling and texting. Computers he had never bothered with, since he couldn’t read English.

“So I’m doing everything?” Chase asked, shifting her hands to her hips.

“No way, you just gotta teach the kid.” Jack chuckled at Chase’s confused face.

“He’s, like, _five_ , there’s no way he’ll learn.”

“Seven,” Dick interrupted. Chase looked down at him in surprise.

“What?”

“I am _seven._ ” Dick was expecting the typical chuckle and comment on how he was small for his age, but certainly didn’t expect what Chase did next.

“You sound so cute!” She squealed, suddenly pulling Dick into her arms. “That’s a cool accent, where are you from? When did you move here? How long have you been here?”

Dick squirmed a little in her arms, but found that he was actually okay with her hugging him. He hadn’t been hugged since he said goodbye to the others at the circus, and even though it had only been just over a day, he had missed it. He decided to answer Chase’s questions as best as he could, hoping she would hug him longer.

“I am from _România,_ we move three years,” Dick explained, his accent thick.

“Where’s your family?” Chase asked. The boy in her arms stiffened, and she set him down.

“Zucco.” Apparently that was explanation enough.

“Fine, I’ll teach you. But you’re English might be a problem. Chase practically dragged dick over to the counter, setting him down on top, before sitting next to him. “You better be a damn fast learner.”

...

**|8:07 pm**

It turned out that Dick was a very fast learner. His lack of English skills did prove to be a hindrance, and so for the first little while Chase had to read everything out to him, explaining the meanings of words he didn’t understand, or the pronunciations of the ones spelt a little strange. They only did that for about an hour or two while Chase gave him a basic run down of computers before starting to teach him an entirely different language. Computer code. They worked for nearly eight hours, taking two breaks in between.

Computer code is a complex thing, and while Dick was always excellent at math despite his young age, it can take months to learn computer code with a good teacher. Chase _was_ good, but eight hours can only get you so far. Neither of them had even realized so much time had passed until Jack leaned next to them, chin in his hands.

“Kid, don’t you have someplace to be?” He asked, nudging Dick.

Dick looked up from the computer, where he had slowly been typing out a sequence of numbers under Chase’s instruction, then glanced outside. Through the door window he could see the darkening sky. Dick’s eyes widened. He hadn’t intended to be gone so long. Dean could have gone into his room at any moment and seen he was gone. Flying like the bird he claimed to be, Dick jumped from the counter and dashed towards the door.

“I return?” Dick asked, spinning around briefly.

“Yeah, Gray. Come back tomorrow, you still have lots to learn,” Chase answered, brown eyes briefly turning up to meet blue. It wasn’t exactly a smile that crossed Dick’s face, and it wasn’t exactly a kind one, but it was the closest thing he had come to since his family fell. It would be a slow start, but he was going to find Zucco. Dick ran back to the apartment, thankful that the route between there and Lee’s was a fairly straightforward one, and he was slipping back into his bedroom window in under twenty minutes.

It was obvious that Dean had noticed Dick was gone. While the room couldn’t exactly look ransacked, considering there were so few things inside of it, everything that was in it had been scattered about and ruined in some way. Which meant Dick’s things had been ruined. His suitcase was turned upside down, everything scattered across the floor, but that wasn’t really what he cared about. The only thing in there was clothes. The drawstring bag he had used was nearly torn in two, Zitka lying on top of it near the centre of the room, and one of Zitka’s ears flung halfway to the wall. The books in German and Italian were lying face down, a few pages scattered around them. Then there were the photos. Not all of them had been damaged, but many were creased, a few torn and one or two even had boot prints on them. Then there was the last photo that Dick and his family had taken together. It had been torn into three separate pieces.

Dick slid to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes, and gathered up the items, sobs escaping him. He held the torn photo pieces together as if they would magically meld together, then did the same with Zitka’s ear, but it didn’t work. He was in the middle of the room, the discarded items swept into his arms, when Dean entered with an enraged scowl.

“Where the fuck did you go?” Dean yelled, charging into the room. Dick jumped in fear and pushed himself back against the wall, trying to keep everything in his arms.

“The street, just around!” Dick cried out, fearing what Dean was going to do.

“Did I say that you could go?”

“N-no,” Dick shook his head vigorously, and Dean sneered.

“No, I didn’t. Which means you disobeyed me.”

“No!” Dick repeated.

“Shut the fuck up, kid!” Dean roared, and Dick clamped his mouth shut, tears pouring from his eyes. “You want to go anywhere, you have to tell _me_ first. You don’t, and this is what happens!”

Dean reached out and grabbed Dick’s shirt, then slammed him against the wall. Dick couldn’t hold back his cry as Dean drove his fist into the young boy’s ribs.

“I _said_ shut up!” Dean’s hand was suddenly around Dick’s throat, held tight and blocking of his air. Dick’s eyes widened and he scrambled at the large hand, his feet kicking against the wall, but he couldn’t do anything. The edge of his vision was turning red, and black spots were blocking out most of the room. The next thing he knew, Dick was lying on the floor, gasping for air with Dean’s foot pressed against his stomach.

“No food tomorrow, kid.” Dick didn’t like how he said kid. It wasn’t at all like Chase and the others, who sounded nice when they said it. Dean said it like it was a swear.

“Ms. Kincaid called today, your family’s funeral is tomorrow. You’re going, but only so no one asks questions. Say _anything_ to _anyone_ about this arrangement, and pretty soon someone will be planning your funeral, go it?”

Dick nodded slowly, and the pressure on his stomach disappeared. The door slammed as Dean left as Dick, with silent tears streaming down his face, put all his things into his suitcase, gently tucking the photographs back inside the books pages. He brought the suitcase onto the bed and placed it between him and the wall.

The third night spent in Dean’s apartment, Dick slept, but only because exhaustion seemed to ambush him when the tears he had thought dried up days ago finally finished pouring from his eyes.


	5. Wooden Boxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 5
> 
> Romani speech is bold and italicized

**|April 8 th**

**|8:00 am**

Dick wasn’t really surprised when he woke up to the sound of yelling, almost right in his ear. He flinched away from Dean, instinctively pulling the broken Zitka closer to his being.

“Hurry up. There’s some old man waiting for you,” Dean snarled, stepping back from the small boy. He tossed a small bundle at the boy, and something metal smacked against his forehead. “The geezer brought this for you. Remember what I said yesterday.”

Dick nodded as Dean left, and looked down at the bundle wrapped in white paper. He carefully unravelled it, revealing a set of nice looking clothes. A pair of black, pressed pants, a white button up shirt, a black vest with three buttons, and a strip of white cloth Dick thought was called a tie. There was also a belt, the buckle being what hit his head, and even a small pair of shiny shoes. The clothes looked nice and expensive. They even _felt_ expensive, but he’d never worn anything expensive before. But then he remembered, today was the funeral. People wore nice things to funerals.

He stared at the clothes a moment longer, then blinked as he remember something. Of what he had seen, white ties weren’t a common thing in America. This meant that whoever bought these clothes knew about Dick’s Romani heritage, of which his mother had taught him much. Intrigued by this, he unfolded the clothes, searching for something. He found it when two white gloves fell from with the folds of the shirt, along with a square of red fabric. He changed quickly, pulling on the pants, buttoning up the shirt and vest, and sliding the gloves over his small hands. The fit wasn’t perfect. Being smaller than the average kid his age, these clothes were just a little big for Dick.

The tie he couldn’t do, and he didn’t know what the cloth was specifically for, so he stuffed both into his pocket. Just before leaving, he looked at the necklace bearing the two rings, and his father’s watch. Traditionally, Dick remembered that he shouldn’t have even touched those things, since they belonged to the dead. He’s supposed to destroy or sell the belongings, to avoid _marimé_ [ _contamination_ ], if he remembers correctly. But he didn’t want to get rid of them, he wanted to keep them.

Dick scowled, searching for some kind of loophole. He supposed that, since he was already touching the items, _marimé_ had already occurred. But there’s always the risk of their angry spirits returning. He put the watch and necklace on, deciding to solve his dilemma later. Before cautiously stepping out of the room, Dick swallowed one of the pills the strange man had given him yesterday.

Despite being a little kid, Dick was smart. He knew taking strange pills from some guy through his window probably wasn’t a good idea. The first time his ribs had hurt too much for him to want to wait. But when Chase had been showing him how computers work, he had looked up the medicine. It wasn’t some strange drug, but a legitimate painkiller, so he wasn’t worried. Out in the hall, Dean was waiting for him, and raised an eyebrow when he saw Dick’s clothes.

“What the hell is with all the white? It’s a funeral, stupid kid,” Dean muttered.

“E tradiție,” [ _It’s tradition_ ] Dick snapped back.

“Kid, speak fucking English, or don’t speak anything at all,” Dean growled, and Dick immediately fell silent. He didn’t want to be hit again. That proved to be a pointless effort when Dean shoved him towards the door. Dick stumbled, his feet slipping around in the too-big shoes, and only stayed upright because the door prevented him from tumbling into the hall. Dean turned away, muttering and swearing under his breath, while Dick rubbed his forehead and ribs, thankful he had already taken the medication. He slunk out into the hallway and started down the stairs. He toyed with the idea of simply not returning to the apartment after the funeral, or at least only doing so to gather his things. It wouldn’t be too hard. Just put all his important stuff in his suitcase, leave the clothes he didn’t behind.

Then he remembered Dean’s threat. While the large man may have only told Dick not to talk about what was happening, he was sure that if he ran away, Dean would chase him down and kill him. He looked like a man who killed. But Dick couldn’t die, not yet anyways, he had to get Zucco first. He didn’t really care what happened after that.

When Dick stepped out of the apartment building, there was a sleek black car waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. An elderly gentlemen—and Dick could tell from just a glance that he _was_ a gentlemen—stood by the back passenger door.

“Good morning, sir. I am Alfred Pennyworth, butler to the Wayne family. I am here to escort you today.” The man had a distinct British accent, and spoke formally. He looked kind and smiled at Dick. But there was something about him, something that bothered the little acrobat. He approached slowly, making his way down the stone steps and stopping a few feet from the car.

“Bună dimineața, Mr. Pen-nee-worth.” [G _ood morning_ ] Dick spoke cautiously, making sure he said the name correctly.

“If I may ask, where is your tie and pocket square?”

Dick paused a moment, considering the words, then pulled the two fabrics out of his pocket. He was just a little proud that he had correctly guessed what the tie was called.

“Allow me.” Mr. Pennyworth knelt down, taking the items from Dick’s hands. He popped up the collar on the small white shirt, looping the tie around Dick’s neck, and tied it swiftly. He took a moment to properly fold the pocket square, and slipped it into the pocket of Dick’s vest.

“ _Mu_ \- thank you,” Dick said, remembering to speak English.

“You’re welcome.” Mr. Pennyworth rose and opened the door to the car, and Dick hesitated. There was still something about the man that was bugging him, and really he shouldn’t just get into the back of someone’s car. The old man smirked at Dick’s reluctance.

“I can assure you that my only intentions are to drive you to the cemetery.”

Dick looked the man over once again, and finally realized what had been bothering him. He wasn’t sure what a butler was, never having heard that word in English before, but he recognized the way Mr. Pennyworth held himself. It was similar to how the strongman back at the circus did. It was the way a man with military experience held himself. Finally, Dick obliged and climbed into the car, pulling on his seatbelt while Mr. Pennyworth walked around to the driver’s side of the car. Dick took this time to examine the interior. He knew right away that the car, like his clothes, was expensive. Definitely the nicest car he had ever been in, granted Dick was sure he hadn’t been in more than five. Three of those being cabs, one of them being that commissioner guy’s car, and the last being Ms. Kincaid’s.

There was the slight loophole that Dick had been in one of the cabs three times, but he decided to be fair and count it only as one.

They were leaving the more rundown area of Gotham around Park Row, heading closer to the outskirts of the city and away from all the taller buildings, of which there were many. Eventually, Mr. Pennyworth pulled the car up beside a black, wrought iron fence. As Dick stepped out of the car, his eyes roamed over the rows of grey stone, eventually settling on the four black coffins hovering above their beds. As he was led through the cemetery, his thoughts were pulled back to Pop Haly and the rest of the circus. Everyone had wanted to stay long enough for the funeral, but they couldn’t.

The circus had been jointly owned by a Haly and a Norton ever since it was created, the ownership being passed down through the families. While the circus was still named after Haly’s family, at the moment it was Norton who technically owned it, and he had insisted they leave for the next show. Normally that wouldn’t have stopped the performers from staying behind, not at all bothered by the threat of unemployment, but apparently the police had gotten involved as well and threatened to arrest them if they didn’t leave. When Dick heard this, it only further solidified his belief that police were useless. They let criminals run free, and ran his only family out of the city.

As they were approaching the neat row of coffins, Dick noticed there were two men standing by. One was obviously a reverend or a priest. Or maybe a pastor, he wasn’t too sure and didn’t know the difference. Some things in English had too many different names. The other was a man in a suit, and immediately Dick knew there was something strange about this man too, like with Mr. Pennyworth. He took a moment to observe this man, but didn’t see the same hint of military background to be found in the butler. He saw something dangerous.

“Mr. Richard, this is Bruce Wayne. He is the man paying for your uncle’s medical care, as well as this funeral,” Mr. Pennyworth explained.

Dick nodded, warily staring up at the man. “Thank you.”

Mr. Wayne knelt down in front of Dick, and the little acrobat had to resist the urge to put space between them. When a large, warm hand lowered onto his shoulder, he almost stepped forwards. It was like being hugged by Chase all over again, the kind of contact that he craved.

“When I was younger, I lost my parents as well.” Mr. Wayne grimaced as he spoke. Dick expected the man to say more, like other people at the police station had. To say how sorry they were, and how sad it was. But he didn’t.

“You are not saying sorry?” Dick asked. He realized that, with his limited English, the question almost sounded rude, but Mr. Wayne appeared to catch on to what he meant.

“We both know a random man you just met saying two insignificant words won’t change anything.”

Mr. Wayne was right, and they both knew it. And they both knew that they understood each other, having gone through similar things. Words wouldn’t change anything, words _never_ changed anything. Mr. Wayne stood back up, and nodded to the reverend/priest/pastor so that the brief ceremony could begin.

Dick didn’t really pay attention to it, although he found that he was a little upset that they wouldn’t be following Romani customs. Absently he wondered if any of his family’s belonging were with them in their coffins. His father, aunt, and cousin may not have been Romani, but they were always willing to comply to Mary’s and his requests when it came to following these traditions. He hoped they did have some things with them. Johnny would definitely need his drawing book, or else he would be so bored with nothing to do. Dick’s father would need his books, because if he wasn’t on, around, or thinking about trapezes then he was reading. Karla and his mother would definitely have to have their sewing kits. They always loved designing costumes for their family, and the other circus performers, and often made them from scratch. It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford new costumes. The circus had always been a big success, and their employees fairly well off. It was just that they enjoyed making everything for themselves.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a larger hand slipping over his smaller one, and the feeling of cool metal against his skin. Dick looked down and saw a collection of small, silver coins in his palm. He was still fairly unfamiliar with American money. Being only seven years old meant he didn’t really have to deal with it much, but he at least knew the names of the coins. The ones in his hand now were dimes, his favourite by far. They were small compared to other coins, like he was compared to other kids his age, and he loved the sound they made when clinking together in his pocket.

For a moment he wondered if Mr. Wayne had somehow known this was his favourite coin. Dick didn’t really question how he knew some Romani customs, such as the white and red, or the coins. He brief expedition through the internet with Chase had showed him you could find almost anything on there.

As the coffins started to lower, Dick stepped forwards, his bottom lip trembling. He bit it tightly, refusing to cry again. He was his mother’s little robin, and he was a strong little bird. Strong birds didn’t cry. He dropped a couple coins into each grave, one for him, and one for his Uncle Rick. He was hiccupping the whole time, holding back his sobs, and stepped away when his palm was empty. He did his best to remain stoic as the coffins were buried in the dirt.

The reverend/priest/pastor left, and it was just Dick, Mr. Wayne, and Mr. Pennyworth. The two older men stepped back, allowing Dick to approach the fresh graves alone. He sunk down to his knees beside the two marked Mary and John.

“Mami, tati... mi-e frică,” [M _ommy, Daddy… I’m scared_ ] Dick glanced back at the two men behind him. He was sure they couldn’t speak Romanian, but what if they could? Then they would find out what was happening. Dick turned back to his mother’s grave, and switched to speaking Romani.

“ ** _They put me in a new home, with a scary man. He hurts me and threatened me, so I can't tell anyone. Except you, because you can't tell anyone else,_ ”** Dick took a deep, rattling breath, and continued. “ ** _Zucco won’t get away with this. I’ll make sure of that_** _._ ”

He stood slowly, then turned around and started walking away. Mr. Pennyworth guided him back to the car, and Mr. Wayne followed. When they were seated, Mr. Wayne spoke.

“I hear that you’ve already been given a new home.”

Dick nodded, staring down at his feet and trying to ignore the twinge in his ribs.

“Is it good?”

Dick looked up in surprise, not having expected that question. He watched Mr. Wayne carefully. That dangerous hint of something, appeared to be absent at the moment, and he actually looked concerned.

“I know the area you’ve been placed isn’t exactly the safest, but I spoke to your social worker and reviewed the history of your guardian.”

The little acrobat just nodded again. Apparently Ms. Kincaid and Dean were prepared to be looked into, if Mr. Wayne had already done so and didn’t _sound_ worried.

“It is good,” Dick mumbled, recalling Dean’s threat.

“He’s nice to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what’s happening for school?”

Dick shook his head. He hadn’t even thought about that, having previously been homeschooled. He had just studied whenever he had the time and assumed that he would continue to do so.

“I’ll ask Ms. Kincaid about that. But that’s… good, that he’s good.”

Once again, Dick nodded. He hadn’t wanted to lie to Mr. Wayne, for some reason he just had a feeling that he shouldn’t, but his fear of Dean overwhelmed any urges to tell the truth. Although Dick was a little puzzled when Mr. Wayne almost seemed a little sad that Dean was ‘good’ to him.

The three occupants of the vehicle settled into a rather comfortable silence, content with not saying anything. Before the deaths of almost Dick’s entire family, he may have been assaulting Mr. Wayne with a battery of questions, from everything to what the seats of the car were made of, to why his hair was gelled back like that. But he didn’t say anything, and instead just waited until the car pulled up to the apartment building once again. He glanced down at his father’s watch and saw was nearing ten o’clock. Dick hadn’t been away from the apartment for all that long, and he didn’t want to go back so soon.

Once out of the car, Dick slowly climbed up the steps, waiting for the sleek, black vehicle to drive away, before hopping back to the sidewalk and taking off down the road. Within minutes he was bursting through the door of Lee’s Laundromat, ignoring the startled shouts of Jack and Howell as he barrelled past them. He smoothly fell into a cartwheel, then a front flip, then launched himself up so he landed beside Chase on her counter.

“Hey, Gray. What’s up?” Chase asked, not at all shocked by his sudden acrobatic display. Her deep brown eyes settled momentarily on the small boy before looking back to her screen. In an almost comical moment, she slowly turned her whole head towards him, taking in the determined expression she had just glimpsed on his face.

“Faster,” Dick demanded, staring intensely at the ragged girl.

“What?”

“Teach. Me. Faster.” If Dick were a little older, his voice may have sounded low, almost threatening even. The effect wasn’t quite fully there with his younger, higher pitched voice, but no one could miss the sharp edge in his tone that was only enhanced by his heavy accent.

“Uh, sure, okay.” Chase nodded and scooted over so that Dick could join her. “But just so you know, if you want to learn faster, I’m not going to go easy on you.”

He didn’t reply, just motioned to the computer, and listened raptly as she dove into a continuation of yesterday’s lesson. Seeing his family’s coffins being lowered into the ground had reignited his anger, not that it had ever really gone away. But seeing the stones, the graves themselves, had driven home the fact that they were gone, and they weren’t coming back. On the way back from the funeral, Dick had made a decision.

By next year, one way or another, Zucco would be locked away. And it didn’t really matter to Dick whether it was bars holding him prisoner, or a wooden box.


	6. A New Family?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 6

**|April 16 th**

**|7:32 pm**

Two and a half weeks. That’s how long it had been since the Grayson’s had died. While Rick technically wasn’t dead, Dick was losing hope that he would ever wake up. It didn’t help that the little acrobat hadn’t even been to see his uncle, but Gotham General was almost on the other side of the city, and there was no way he could make it there and back within a day. Not on his own.

Two and a half weeks since he was left own. Just over two weeks since he had been placed in Dean’s ‘care’.

These were the thoughts running through Dick’s head as Dean drew his fist back once again. Two weeks had led to the creation of a rather regular ‘schedule’. Desperate to find Zucco, Dick had taken to sneaking out of the apartment every day to go Lee’s and learn from chase. His aptitude for language had never proved so useful. His English was improving, and he had taken to computer code like he had been born making it. Every night when he returned, the beating would start. Dean would get mad at Dick for sneaking out, question him about where he was, and who he spoke to. Dick would refuse to answer his questions, or he at least wouldn’t answer them in English. Although every word spoken in Romanian simply earned him another hit.

Two weeks, and Dick felt that he was rather desensitised. It still hurt, obviously, but he didn’t cry out as much. He hissed when he was burned and gasped when he was kicked, but other than that he did his best to remain quiet.

Although the ring was new, and made it a little harder to keep his lips shut. There were a few minor nicks on his arms where the sharp edge of the stone split his skin.

“You fucking gypsy brat,” Dean spat between blows. “Where the hell did you go?”

Dick bit his lip, not wanting to say anything and betray the teens he had befriended. And it would be betraying. During one of their lessons, he had asked Chase why they needed a secret hideout.

_“We told ya before. Zucco has hurt lotsa families, and because of him, we don’t have homes.”_

_“But, secret?”_

_“Let’s just say that we like to cause trouble for the guy, and if he knew where we were… well, we wouldn’t be here anymore.”_

_“You move?”_

_“Yeah, underground.”_

It was after that conversation that Dick had stopped speaking English around Dean. He didn’t trust himself not to let something slip on accident, so if he didn’t speak in a language the man could understand, then he couldn’t reveal their secret hideout. But Dean was being especially harsh today. It had only been about a minutes, and already there were bruises on his arms and stomach, his ribs were aching more than ever, and there was a fresh row of burns on his back.

“Where did you go?” Dean repeated, his meaty fist flying down. This time it connected with his face, the ring ripping into the skin just below his eye. Dick’s response was instant.

“Pentru a prietenilor,” [ _To_ _friends_ ] he shouted, mentally scolding himself for speaking at all.

“Stop speaking that damn language!” Dean hit him again, in the same spot, and the cut on his face widened. It hurt so much, and Dick just wanted it to stop. Before he even realized he was saying it, the words spilled from his lips.

“I go to see friends!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the next blow. When it didn’t come, Dick slowly peeked up at the man above him. Dean was standing back, fists clenched at his side, and glaring down at the little acrobat. He seemed so impossibly still, and it was then that Dick processed his own words. His hands flew up from their protective position around his chest, to instead cover his mouth.

“What friends?”

“No one, no one!” Dick cried, wishing he could take back what he had just said.

“So you go to them every day?”

“No, no I-”

“Don’t lie to me, brat,” Dean threatened, raising his fist again. “You go see them every day?”

“I-yes,” Dick nodded.

“Do you talk to them about _here_?”

“No!” Dick shook his head violently, curling inwards in the hopes of warding off another hit, should it come. But once again it didn’t. Instead Dean sniffed, glared at Dick once more, than stalked out of the room. As soon as the door had clicked shut, the young boy dragged himself across his ‘bed’ and started searching for his bottle of pills in its usual place between the mattress and wall. He had run out of the small, white tablets a few days ago, the first bottle not having been full. The next morning he had woken up to a second bottle sitting on his open sill, and Dick knew that Wilson had returned at some point that night.

Now Dick was extremely grateful for the mysterious man. From experience at the circus, he knew that injured ribs could take up to six weeks to heal. He had four to go, and it was understandable that his remained sore. Dean frequently kicking them didn’t really help.

Over the past two weeks he had completely forgotten about the little clinic down the street, more concerned with finding Zucco than taking care of his injuries. But finding Zucco was turning out to be a frustratingly slow process, especially since he wasn’t actually doing any _looking_ yet. So far he had only actually learned three things about Tony Zucco. He ruled Gotham, he was skilled with technology, and the front business for his gang was restaurants. It was indeed very clichéd.

Chase told him today that they had managed to gather a list of various restaurants they believed to be owned by Zucco, but hadn’t let him see it. She and Jack insisted he learn more about technology first.

Two minutes later, Dick was still searching for the pills. He was feeling light headed and his movements were sluggish, hindering his progress. He had slid the mattress away from the wall, but the orange bottle wasn’t there. He searched through his collected things that had once been held in the drawstring bag, but still couldn’t find it. Dick was stumbling across the floor towards the closet when something knocked against his toes. He looked down to see the bottle, lying in the middle of floor. It rolled toward him, bounced off his foot, than rolled forwards again.

Completely ignoring the fact that it was actually impossible for the bottle to move like that, he picked it up and ambled back towards the mattress. After swallowing a pill, and grimacing at its bitter taste, Dick lay sprawled out on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His right eye burned, whether from withholding tears, or from the rips in his skin just below he didn’t know. He stayed like that, glaring at the water—and possible blood—stained ceiling until he fell asleep. He almost slept soundly that night. The occasional twitch or squeezing of eyes hinted at the nightmares he was having, but not once did Dick wake up. This allowed the shadow outside his bedroom window to sneak in undetected, and the little acrobat remained oblivious of the forced conversation being held just two rooms over.

...

**|April 17 th**

**|10:00 am**

Dick had his ear pressed to his bedroom door. It had been a big surprise when, just a few hours ago, he had awoken completely on his own and not to Dean shouting at him, banging on his door, or hitting him. At first he had thought that his guardian had already left, but a few minutes of quiet listening proved otherwise. He delayed heading out that day, instead staying in his room and reading his books while Dean actually checked on him once, twice, _three_ times. Each time the intimidating man had opened the bedroom door just wide enough for him to peer inside, then closed it without saying anything or causing an injuries.

Just about ten minutes ago Dick thought he had heard the door to the apartment open and close. He wasn’t yet sure if that was Dean leaving, or someone else coming in or stopping by for a moment, so he had taken to listening for any signs of movement. So far there had been none. He stayed that way, kneeling in front of his door, for a few moments longer before deciding that Dean was actually gone and it would be safe for him to leave. Knowing that the man could return at any moment and decide to check on him once again, Dick scrambled towards the window and slipped outside, as stealthily as possible.

He thundered down the fire escape, one goal in mind. He had to warn Chase and the others that he had accidently spoken about them. He would have done so hours ago, but with Dean actually _checking_ on him and the risk of being seen leaving higher than ever, Dick had waited. Now, though, he held nothing back and full on sprinted down the sidewalk. He may have been only seven, but he could move quickly when he wanted to. His shoes, which were actually in very poor condition, slapped noisily on the sidewalk, blocking out any other minor sounds as he ran. Just before he reached Lee’s, Dick suddenly stopped, nearly tripping over himself, and looked down an alley across the street.

In the shadows he could see someone standing there. Someone tall, a man. He recognized the silhouette almost immediately. It was the man that had given him the pills. Dick still couldn’t properly see his face, but grinned and waved in thanks. The man raised his own hand in reply before sinking into the shadows. Dick blinked, searching for the man, and started walking across the street. He didn’t even noticed the motorcycle come zooming around the corner, or the foreign shouts trying to shoo him from the road. What he did notice was the hand curling around his middle and hauling him back as the motorcycle shot by, knocking both him and his saviour off their feet.

“Whoa, Gray. You can’t exactly catch Zucco if you get yourself killed.”

Dick tilted his head up to see Chase’s wide grin.

“Chase! Chase, I am sorry, I-”

“Hey, kid, calm down,” Chase soothed, ruffling Dick’s hair. “It’s no problem, I can save you any day. And what happened to your face?”

Dick’s eyes widened for a moment. She misunderstood, thought he was apologizing for almost being run down. Honestly, he didn’t really care about that, not at the moment.

“No, I’m sorry-” Once again he was cut off by the teenager.

“I have a present for you, come on.”

Dick’s rant died in his throat as Chase hauled him to his feet. A present? But it wasn’t his birthday or Christmas, or any sort of holiday where presents were given as far as he knew. He hadn’t even known Chase that long, why would she have a present for him?

His curiosity successful quelled his panic long enough for Chase to drag him into Lee’s and lift him up onto one of the dryers.

“Wait here,” she instructed and Dick, the good little student he was, obeyed. He decided that he could wait a bit before telling her what happened. He knocked his heels together as he stared around the abandoned laundromat. Jack and Howell were both there today, although they seemed to be paying little attention to the younger boy, having gotten used to his presence. At least, that’s what Dick thought, until he saw Howell glaring at him.

“What?” Dick asked, meeting Howell’s gaze.

“What happened to you?” Apparently Howell’s glare wasn’t anger towards Dick, but more like his own way of showing concern.

Dick raised a hand, touching the skin just below his eye, and realized something. Every time he had come to Lee’s in the past two weeks, he had been careful to hide any of his bruises or injuries. The burns and cuts on his arms were easily hidden with a long-sleeved shirt, but the one on his face? He had nothing for that, and he didn’t have an explanation either.

“I fell,” Dick said.

“No you didn’t,” Howell frowned, his voice gruff. Jack was looking now too, and both of them actually seemed concerned, which surprised Dick. Jack may have agreed to help him in the first place, but hadn’t been very involved with Dick since then. Howell hadn’t really seemed to care at all since the very beginning.

“Yes, I did,” Dick nodded.

“No. You didn’t.”

“Gray, sit still!” Chase called as she emerged from the backroom, a first-aid kit in one hand, and a box in the other. She put both on the dryer beside Dick and started pulling things out of the kit.

“This is gonna sting a bit,” said Chase as she held a cotton swab to a brown bottle and tilted it. Dick watched her closely, the little ritual so familiar to him. His mother had done it dozens of times whenever he fell and scraped his knees, or if he forgot to chalk his hands before practicing, which often result in tearing the skin on his palms. The last time someone had done this for him, it had been a stranger, just after his family died, and they were treating his hands. They hadn’t been very gentle.

His mother had been gentle, and so was Chase. She dabbed the swab soaked in hydrogen peroxide against his cheek, pausing every time he hissed, then pulled out several Band-Aids to cover the cuts.

“How’s that?” Chase asked, packing up the kit, and Dick responded with a short nod.

“Where do you live?”

Dick looked over Chase’s shoulder at Howell, who had actually stood up and approached them. He hesitated before replying. Dean said he couldn’t say anything about what went on inside the apartment, did that also mean he couldn’t actually say anything about it? Dick decided he didn’t want to take that risk.

“A building.”

“You little— _where_ is the building?”

“In Gotham.”

“Where in _Gotham_?”

“A street.”

Howell groaned in frustration and threw his arms up before stomping away.

“Gray?” Dick’s eyes snapped back to Chase. “It’s important for us, that we know. Is your new family hurting you?”

This time he didn’t answer at all, and that was enough for the girl. She immediately pulled him into a hug, once again toying with his hair.

“Are you going back to them tonight?”

Dick was about to nod, when Howell suddenly shouted. “Screw that!”

Three heads snapped towards the beefy teen and he shuffled his feet, looking almost embarrassed at his sudden outburst. “No one should live in a place like that. From now on, you’re staying with us.”

Chase nodded and started to chatter excitedly about how they would be a family. She would be the mom, Jack the dad, and Howell the estranged uncle—which earned a sharp “Hey!” from said ‘uncle’. It was honestly the most Dick had ever heard her say that didn’t involve computers. At least it would be if he was actually listening, but he had stopped the moment the word family fell from her lips. He could have a family again. Could it really be so simple? He would start living with them and, just like that, they would be family? The three teenagers certainly already acted like a family and they were so ready to accept Dick as one of them. That word just kept echoing in his head. Family, family, family. He missed having one dearly. Maybe he could get Chase to take him to Gotham General to his uncle, his real uncle. And he could tell Uncle Rick all about his new family and how he was going to catch Zucco, then he could visit the other Graysons where they rested to do the same.

“And I could give you advice about your first girlfriend, but Jack and Howell would have to give you _the talk_. Oh, and this is your welcome home present!” The box Chase had brought in earlier was ceremoniously dropped onto Dick’s lap, drawing him out of his echoing thoughts. He stared down at it, then up at Chase.

“Come on, Gray, open it!” She grinned and he complied. He lifted lid, revealing a pair of shoes. They were black, with laces instead of Velcro, and on the heel and tongue of each shoe was a yellow oval with a bat inside. Two weeks ago, Dick probably wouldn’t have recognized the symbol. Superheroes had never really been important to him while at the circus—although he always thought Superman was kind of cool—but now he knew that this insignia belonged to Batman, the protector of Gotham.

“Your shoes are kinda ratty, so I thought I could get you some new ones.” And they really were new. Not hand-me-downs from his cousin, but brand new shoes from a store.

“You bought them?” Dick asked.

“I got a five finger discount,” Chase smirked when she caught Dick’s confused expression. “I stole ‘em. Kids like us? We can’t just walk into a store and buy what we need, no matter how badly we need it. Remember this, Gray. You want something? You have to take it yourself, don’t wait around for someone to give it to you.”

Dick nodded as he put on his new shoes, understanding all too well what Chase meant. The others didn’t know this, but he had already tried his hand at thievery. The one meal a day Dean provided was only enough for Dick to survive day to day, forcing the little acrobat to familiarize himself with the surrounding convenience stores and their chip aisles. He had almost managed to take one of those prepackaged sandwiches, but being seven he didn’t have very big sleeves to hide something that large. His acrobatics had really come in handy while running from the angered store owner.

As Dick was admiring his shoes, he finally remembered his earlier panic. “Chase, I told!”

“What?”

“He—he asked me where I went,” Dick started. He could feel the tears springing to his eyes, but blinked them away and continued on shaky breaths. “I didn’t want to tell him, bu—but it hurt, and I wanted him to st—stop.”

Realization dawned on the teens’ faces, but none of them yelled at him. Howell started mumbling threatening words under his breath, but they weren’t aimed at Dick.

“It’s okay, Gray. What did you tell him?” Chase asked calmly, sounding very much like the mother she boasted she would be.

“Just that I w—went to friends,” Dick sniffed, rubbing his nose across the back of his hand.

“Then it’s fine. You didn’t mention any names, Gray, and you don’t have to go back there anymore anyways,” said Jack reassuringly.

“My stuff?” Dick couldn’t leave any of it behind, it was all he had left of his first family. And speaking of families, if they were going to be one, the others would have to know his real name.

“Howell and I’ll go back for your stuff tonight, and you can stay here with Chase,” Jack grinned and for the first time in two weeks, the corners of Dick’s mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. But they quickly fell when the door suddenly burst open.

“You stupid gypsy trash brat!” Dean roared, running forwards. He shoved Jack and Howell aside and grabbed Dick’s arm. The little acrobat cried out and Chase stepped up to defend him.

“Leave him alone!” Chase shouted, throwing quick jabs at Dean’s chest. They did little to harm the large man, and were more of a nuisance. He abruptly let go of Dick to deal with the girl, resulting in Dick tumbling to the floor, forehead smacking against the cracked tiles.

“Shut up, bitch. I own this kid, and I can do whatever the hell I want with him.” Dean brought a fist up and delivered a sharp blow to Chase’s head. She went tumbling backwards, body limp, and lay on the floor unmoving. Nuisance dealt with, Dean grabbed Dick by his throat and started dragging him towards the door.

“Let him go! The kid’s with us now!” Howell shouted, drawing the attention of both the large man and the small boy. Dean laughed heartily at the scene before him, tossing Dick aside. The little acrobat scrambled across the floor, a little unsteady from lack of oxygen and his earlier hit to the head, to kneel by Chase and attempt to wake her up.

Jack stood in front of the door, blocking Dean’s exit, and Howell stood in the middle of the laundromat, a gun in his hands.

“Kid, do you even know how to shoot that thing?” Dean laughed again. His bellows were cut off by a bang as Howell demonstrated his skill in ‘shooting that thing’. The bullet, however, was either just a warning shot, or Howell had poor aim. It zipped over Dean’s shoulder and through the boards covering the windows.

“Apparently you do, but your aim is a little off.” Before Howell could fire again, Dean had pulled his own gun from the waistband of his jeans, and with another bang the teen’s shirt was rapidly growing red. Howell dropped like a ragdoll, knees bending awkwardly beneath him, and the gun clattering across the tile. Dick couldn’t even hear his own scream over the sound of a third shot, and soon enough Jack was on the floor as well.

Dick’s scream died in his throat as Dean’s hand once again closed around it, but the little acrobat wasn’t sure if it would have continued anyways.

Two and a half weeks since his family died, since his uncle became comatose.

Two minutes since he realized there was a chance he could have a family again.

Two seconds since that chance literally died before his eyes.


	7. Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 7

**|April 18 th**

Dick had spent the night staring at the door, eyes wide and ringed red from all the tears he shed. But he couldn’t even see the dark wood, instead all he saw was red. His parents, sprawled out on the ground, with halos of blood. Rick, Karla, and Johnny in similar positions, with broken bones and shattered skulls. Howell and Jack with their chests stained red, and Chase with just the barest trickle of blood down her forehead.

He hated them, Zucco and Dean. They just wouldn’t stop taking things from him, one family after another. They wouldn’t stop, but they _had_ to stop, and _Dick_ had to _stop_ them. A strange, animalistic cry was ripped from Dick’s throat as he lunged forwards and started attacking the door. Punching and kicking it, pulling at the knob, but nothing happened. He spun about, looking around the bathroom where he had been locked. Tools, sometimes people kept tools in the bathroom, to fix the sink. Dick opened the cupboard under the counter and found a heavy looking wrench. Without any hesitation, he grabbed it and started hitting the door again.

The door wasn’t solid, and it cracked easily under the first swing. He hefted the wrench back, the sudden wait making him stagger a little, and swung again. After two more swings he could see into the hallway, and Dean finally noticed what he was doing.

“What the hell!” Dean shouted. When Dick saw the man’s shins, he didn’t even think, just lashed out by shoving the wrench through the small gap he had created. There wasn’t a lot of force behind the hit, but Dean’s shout of pain a form of twisted relief. He stepped back as the door swung open, and Dean loomed over him.

“You’re gonna regret that, kid,” Dean growled, and he reached down towards Dick. The little acrobat almost stopped and prepared himself for the hit, just as he had every other time. He would do nothing. Just like he hadn’t warned his parents, just like he hadn’t been able to protect Chase. Not this time.

“Nu _,_ vei regrata _!_ ” [ _No_ , _you’ll_ _regret_ _it_ ] Dick shouted, and he wound back before swinging the wrench forwards. It cracked against Dean’s wrist in the sickeningly familiar sound of bones breaking, and the man practically screamed. He jumped for Dick, but he just rolled under his legs into the hallway.

“You fucking gypsy brat, I’ll kill you!” Dean shouted, following Dick into the hall. Dick continued to retreat towards the living room, swinging the wrench wildly every time Dean got near. The man suddenly lunged forwards, and Dick flipped backwards onto the couch, jumping up onto its back. He scrunched his eyes shut and swung blindly. There was another crack and when Dick opened his eyes, he saw Dean clutching his collar bone with his injured hand.

“That’s it, I don’t care about our deal,” Dean hissed, and he pulled a gun from his waistband, the same gun he had used to kill Howell and Jack. Dick started to see red again, but before he could attack, a window behind him suddenly shattered and a man jumped through. He had white hair, and was wearing cargo pants and a matching jacket. In one hand he held a sword, and in the other was a gun. Even though it was the first time Dick had seen him not coated in shadow, he immediately recognized the man to be Wilson.

“That deal was the only thing keeping you alive,” Wilson hissed, and suddenly his gun went off, and Dean fell to one knee, crying out and clutching his leg.

“I—I did what you asked, you can’t kill me!” Dean protested.

“Hmm, you’re right. It would tarnish by reputation if I failed to uphold a deal. But you know, nothing motivates like pain does,” Wilson smiled slyly and grabbed Dick’s shoulder. “It’s satisfying, isn’t it? To see a tormentor in pain.”

Dick gritted his teeth together and nodded slowly.

“So let’s make a deal.” Dean’s eyes widened as Wilson continued to talk to the boy. “Kick him, just once, and I’ll help you find Zucco on one condition—”

Dick didn’t even wait to hear the rest of Wilson’s sentence. The moment Zucco’s name fell from his lips, the little acrobat was moving. Dean tried to move away, but with the bullet in his leg he barely managed to rise to both feet before Dick had flipped off the couch. His feet connected solidly with Dean’s chest, and he jumped away as soon as he was able. Somersaulting through the air, Dick didn’t see Dean fall backwards, neck snapping against the edge of the coffee table. All Dick saw was a seemingly unconscious man lying on the floor, but Wilson had seen everything.

“Come tomorrow, Dean will be gone,” Wilson said, walking back towards the window.

“You said you’d help me,” Dick said, calling after his rescuer.

“On a condition, children really are so hasty. I was hoping it was only mine that were like that,” Wilson sighed, and Dick yelped as something went flying by his head. He looked back to see a knife embedded in the wall. “You must survive, Richard. To the end of the month, with that knife and nothing else from this apartment. Don’t worry about your things, I’ll take care of those.”

Wilson didn’t wait for Dick’s reply and left the boy alone. After a moment’s hesitation, Dick pulled the knife from the wall, and slipped it into his pocket. He started for his room, before recalling Wilson’s words.

_“Nothing else from this apartment.”_

Not his clothes, not his books, and none of his tokens to remember his parents. He also remembered Wilson’s promise to keep his things safe. Dick took a few minutes to at least gather all his things together, arranging them in his suitcase, before standing in front of the same window Wilson had left from. He cast one more look back at Dean, and hoped that Wilson would return for his things before the other man woke up.

He wasn’t really sure what to do, though, so by force of habit Dick found himself walking by Lee’s. He was supposed to survive on his own to the end of the month, but Wilson never said he couldn’t continue looking on his own. Dick was reluctant to step inside the laundromat, but he would need Chase’s computer. He swallowed nervously and cracked the door open. It looked almost the same as it had yesterday, except for three very noticeable differences.

The new bloodstains on the floor, and the distinctive lack of bodies. Dick stepped inside fully and started looking around. No bodies, maybe they were still alive. He felt his heart rise at that possibility, and despite how unlikely it was, Dick found that he just couldn’t let that chance go. There didn’t seem to be anything obvious missing, but Dick could have sworn that the food supply looked a little lower than it had last time. When he reached the back counter, he remembered his purpose. The computer. It was still there, along with most of Chase’s other gadgets. He grabbed as many as he could, shoving them into a bag he found, and left the laundromat.

Chase and the others could still be alive, but Dick couldn’t risk looking for them. He couldn’t risk putting them in danger again.

...

**|April 20 th**

Dick had been searching online for anything he could on Zucco, while a background program attempted to hack into Chase’s locked files, when he stumbled upon the short news article. He and Dean had been declared missing, after his social worker had found the empty apartment.

Wilson had kept his promise to take care of Dean. Dick suspected that he had threatened the man, to scare him away. All in all it didn’t really matter. It just meant that now he didn’t have to worry about Dean, and he could continue his search unhindered. Dick was just going back to his research when a series of sharp pings sounded from the computer. He smiled and opened the program that had sent the alert. He had finally managed to break through Chase’s security, and somewhere in these files was a list of restaurants owned by Tony Zucco.

**...**

**|April 22 nd**

“Let go!” Dick shouted, pulling against the hand wrapped around his arm.

“No way, I’m calling the cops,” the store clerk replied as she struggled to reach the phone. Dick increased his efforts, and decided he wasn’t going to get away if he remained as passive as he was now. He spun around, pulling the clerk’s arm in a direction it should not be able to go, and kicked out against the woman’s knee. He was careful not to kick her hard enough to cause serious damage, but certainly enough that she would be walking with a limp for a long time.

The woman shouted in a combination of surprise and pain, and her grip loosened, but she didn’t let go. Dick was almost sighing as he pulled the knife from his pocket and slashed the woman’s hand. He slipped through her fingers and ran out the door, the items he had stolen still in his hands. He didn’t stop running until he reached the abandoned building he had holed up in for the past few days.

“Hey, wanna share?” A hissing voice sounded from a branching hallway.

“Shut up, find your own,” Dick spat back, and the owner of the voice chuckled, but did nothing further. There were a few other people, besides Dick, that had taken up residence in the old building but everyone typically kept to themselves. There were unspoken rules between them. You didn’t steal from each other, you didn’t enter anyone else’s ‘room’, and you didn’t ask questions. So no one bothered to find out why a seven year old boy who had been proclaimed missing could be seen sitting in a window sill with a computer on his lap almost every day.

...

**|April 27 th**

A few days ago Dick had finally found the file that listed Zucco’s known restaurants, but most of them had just been assumptions. He had spent the last five days working on his hacking skills thanks to the notes on Chase’s computers, until he was able to break into various networks to find out more information. Finally he was able to confirm that one location was actually owned by Zucco.

...

**|April 28 th**

Dick had spent the entire day scouting out the restaurant. He hadn’t seen Zucco around it at all, but had a feeling that there was something inside he could use to track down his family’s murderer. He had brought the computer with him, and familiarized himself with the restaurant’s security. Dick couldn’t decide if he was lucky or not, because the security was no different than any other restaurant. A few cameras and simple burglar alarm system.

It meant that this particular location wasn’t very important to Zucco, but it also meant that it would be a lot easier for him to break inside. Besides, there was always the chance that the decreased security was a front. After all, it _would_ be a little strange if a mere restaurant had anything more sophisticated.

...

**|April 29 th**

**|3:27 am**

He was practically bouncing on his feet in excitement, having waited on the roof all night for the last person to leave, and then waited an extra hour just to be on the safe side. In the past twelve hours the only time he had actually left the roof of the restaurant was to change into something more appropriate, and grab any tools he would need. The clothes he had stolen from the store the other day. They weren’t really anything special, just a pair of black pants and a hoodie. He didn’t bother getting anything to cover his face, since the cameras were already disabled.

Dick waited just a minute longer before crawling over the side of the building. Besides the doors and windows, there was only one other possible entrance for him to use. At the back of the building there was a large vent, just big enough for someone of his size, which led into the kitchen. A cursory examination yesterday revealed that it could be closed off, but that was probably just for winter time when the cold air would get in.

Pushing a small bag in front of him, Dick removed the grate that he had unscrewed earlier and crawled inside. He shimmied forwards, thankful that there wasn’t a long way to go until he was staring down into the kitchen. He reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of cutters. It took a while, but he was able to cut away a decent portion of the thin grating and, with a screwdriver in hand, shoved his arm through the hole. Dick ignored the way the sharp edges of the metal dug into his skin and instead went to work undoing the screws.

The last screw fell, and for a moment the fitted grate remained on the vent, but as he pulled his arm up, it bumped it out of place and the grate fell. Dick hissed sharply as the metal edges dragged against his skin, slicing his forearm and the back of his hand. It wasn’t serious, but it definitely stung. He shoved his bag out and turned onto his back, thankful for his acrobatic past.

Dick curled his fingers around a thin metal bar that was stabilizing the vent on the outside. He pulled himself forwards, bending backwards at an angle that would be impossible for some. Once his head cleared the vent, Dick curled in wards and slowly lowered his legs bellow him, then dropped. He landed with one foot on the grate, and it skidded a little across the tiles, causing him to fall. Dick gasped in surprise, then righted himself and put the pain out of his mind. The fall had jarred his ribs a little, but they were halfway healed and he still had the pills Wilson had given him, so it didn’t bother him too much.

Slipping out of the kitchen, Dick started searching for some kind of manager’s office, and found it but the back door. The door to the office was locked, but the escae artist at the circus had taught him how to pick locks at a young age, so getting inside proved to be a rather easy task. Dick grinned as the locked clicked open and pushed his way inside. There were two desks in the room, and a lot of places for files. His smile turned to a grimace, and Dick dove into the first drawer, looking for anything that could be useful to him. He remained oblivious to the camera in the corner of the room, running on a separate network, that was recording his every move.

Dick had just finished sifting through the first desk, a painfully long process that had yielded little in terms of results, when he heard the sirens. His head snapped up and a few choice slipped from his mouth that surely would have made his mom frown. But just his mom, because John wouldn’t be able to recognized the Romani swears.

He ran out of the office towards the back down, but skidded to a stop when he heard the footsteps outside. Instead, he want back towards the kitchen, casting a panicked glance at the main part of the restaurant where police were already moving through the tables. Moving quickly, Dick pulled a table under the vent, wincing at the sound of the legs scraping against the tiles. He grabbed a chair and pulled it up with him, then climbed on top and reached up. He was just shy of the vent even when standing on the chair’s back. Dick repositioned himself and suddenly shifted so that the chair was standing on two legs instead of four. He crouched a little, wobbling as he tried to maintain his balance, and had just jumped up when the police burst into the kitchen on both sides. Dick caught the bar and swung his feet up, slipping back into the vent, but was stopped when there was suddenly a hand around his wrist yanking him down.

Dick yelped in surprise as he was pulled from the vent, twisting by habit to catch himself. He just missed falling on the chair and slammed down on the table. He rolled on instinct, toppling to the floor before shooting to his feet. He was about to dart away when a strong arm caught him around his stomach.

“No! Pune-mă jos, da drumul!” [ _Put me down, let go_ ] Dick cried, squirming in the officer’s arms.

“What the heck, it’s just a kid?” One of them exclaimed, and they lowered the guns that had been trained on Dick.

“Let go!” Dick shouted again, and he shoved a hand into his pocket, producing the knife. His arms were pinned, but he did his best to slash at his captor. He had just nicked the man’s arm when the knife was pulled from his hand.

“A kid with a knife,” the officer holding him said, showing the blade to the other two.

“Hey, I recognize him. He’s that Grayson kid, the one that was missing,” the first one to speak said, crouching down to Dick’s level. “Let’s get him down to the station.”

Dick didn’t stop struggling as he was picked up and brought to a police cruiser. He was immediately reminded of the night his parents died, but this time he didn’t want to get in the car. Actually, he hadn’t wanted to that time either, but now he was fighting.

“Man, he’s feisty.”

Dick glared at the two officers in the front seat. They hadn’t been able to cuff him, since his hands were too small, but Dick would have just gotten out of them anyways. Although he couldn’t get away anyways, so he was reduced to glaring. He decided that the police were stupid. They weren’t trying to find Zucco, and now they were trying to stop Dick from finding him. No wonder vigilantes existed.

Dick couldn’t help but wonder if Batman would be able to find Zucco.


	8. Juvenile Detention, or Jail for Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 8

**|April 29 th**

**|4:36 pm**

Dick was glaring at _everyone_. The police, the citizens, the other criminals that were marched past his cell. No one was safe. He had been at the station for almost ten hours now, and was getting increasingly annoyed.

When he had first arrived, the three officers that caught him immediately took him to a separate room to question him. They had decided not to include the attempted assault of a police officer in the report for some reason. Dick assumed it was because he was so young, and he had used _the eyes_ on them. Although it only got that far. He _had_ broken into a restaurant. After the brief round of questioning, which had revolved around why he was there, and what he was doing, an arrest report was filed.

He wasn’t sure how it worked in other cities, or other states, or other countries, but apparently in Gotham age didn’t matter much when it came to arrests. Dick went through the full booking process, and overheard some of the officers mention the juvenile system. The little acrobat gathered that there was so much juvenile crime in Gotham that it must have warranted its own open record system. He was impressed with how incompetent this implied the police were. Forget adult crime, they couldn’t even keep their minors in check. No wonder they needed Batman. Although, after doing some leisurely online research while hacking into Chase’s files, Dick had decided Superman was his favourite superhero. He could _fly_ , he could save _everyone_.

Dick had spent the last eight hours in the cell in brooding silence, waiting for someone to either let him out, or tell him what would be happening next. It was all really rather boring. He had a criminal to find, and revenge to get! Not to mention Wilson was waiting for him.

He focused on the next cop going by, and noticed the wide Band-Aid on his arm. So it was the cop that had grabbed him at the restaurant. Dick frowned at the flesh coloured bandage, honestly feeling a little disappointed that that was all the attention his handiwork had warranted. It certainly wasn’t fair that they were inconveniencing him so much, but they were perfectly content.

But instead of disappearing down the hall the cop stopped in front of Dick’s door and just stood there. Dick was about to snark at him, when a second man stepped into his sight. The little acrobat didn’t even think, just jumped, literally, into action. He lunged at Zucco, pressing up against the bars of the cell and reaching out towards him to do… something, anything. To grab, tear, hurt, _destroy_ , Dick didn’t know He just knew that the man that murdered his family was standing _right there_ , and he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Whoa, kid, what the hell, calm down,” the officer said, attempting to calm the boy. Dick did stop, but not because of what the cop said. He stopped because he knew the futility of trying to reach and unreachable man.

“Zucco,” Dick growled.

“This is the one who broke into my restaurant.”

“Yeah, and he really doesn’t like you. What did you do to him?” The cop asked.

“He killed my family!” Dick shouted. The cop blinked, looking mildly surprised, but not at all worried or concerned like he should be.

“Oh, this is _that_ kid.”

“Yes.”

“I take it that you’re not going to press charges?”

“No, you can let the kid go.”

“What about once he’s out? Would you prefer for something to be _arranged_.”

“I would, really, like to take care of this nuisance. But they said not to harm him, just let him get lost in the system,” Zucco waved off the cop’s offer. “You can just call his social worker.”

“Okay, you’re the boss,” the cop grinned. Dick realized that the cop wasn’t just using the phrase, he actually meant it. He worked for Zucco. Wilson had been right. Even if the police knew, they weren’t going to do anything. Zucco owned them.

He was a little curious about the ‘they’ that Zucco mentioned, and Dick decided he would have to thank them. Whoever they were, Zucco wouldn’t hurt him because of them. But there was no one to stop Dick from hurting Zucco.

After Zucco left, the cop returned sometime later and unlocked the cell door.

“Your social worker is here.”

Dick eyed the man skeptically. “So now what?”

“Your foster father—” Dick scowled at the choice of word. “—is still missing, and since you said you don’t know where he is, Ms. Kincaid will be making other arrangements for you.”

Dick hardly wanted to go back to that woman, but he reasoned that he could just run away the first chance he got. Or Wilson would find him and take him. Either way, whatever arrangements Ms. Kincaid made, they wouldn’t be lasting very long. He followed the dirty cop out to the front of the station where his social worker was waiting with her arms crossed and her foot tapping impatiently. The cop nudged Dick forward before walking away, and Ms. Kincaid immediately reached out to grab the little acrobat. But he stepped back before she could touch him.

“Come on, sweetie. We need to go to your new foster home,” she said with false cheeriness. She reached out one more time and again Dick avoided her hand, but he started walking out ahead of her. There was a car parked right in the front of the station, which Dick was pretty sure was illegal considering the red fire hydrant that was there. Ms. Kincaid opened the door and pushed him inside. He didn’t bother resisting, for now, and simply did up his seatbelt while she got in the driver’s side.

“I don’t know what happened, but I know it was your fault,” she spat as soon as she started the car. “Just for tonight, you’re staying in one of our homes, and tomorrow you’re going to a more permanent residence.”

Dick just rolled his eyes, laughing to himself about being forced into any ‘permanent’ residence. Ms. Kincaid just keeps on talking.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you did something. You were probably raised picking pockets and stealing, breaking and entering is just one step up. What else would I expect of a _gypsy?_ ”

Dick’s mischievous smirk slipped, replaced with a frown. It wasn’t the first time Ms. Kincaid had called him that, and Dean had said it a few times too. But what did it _mean?_ He had only recently grasped the English language, and his understanding of it was still very limited. He also had yet to hear other people say that word. But the way those two said it, he knew it was an insult. Dick hadn’t done anything about it before because he couldn’t.

He had been afraid and angry, and had more important things to worry about than what Ms. Kincaid called him. And Dean had been bigger and stronger and hurt him all the time. But now Dean was the one who was hurt, and while Dick was still angry he was no longer afraid. He didn’t do anything yet. The way he figured it, after a few more hours he would be gone and whatever Ms. Kincaid said to him wouldn’t really matter anymore.

Instead of an apartment building, this time they pulled up to an actual house. He also didn’t have any belongings. Dick scowled, realizing that Chase’s computer would still be sitting on top of Zucco’s restaurant. If no one else had already found and moved it, that is. He hadn’t been using his pills for the past few days, so he wasn’t worried about those. His ribs should have been nearly healed now anyways and the only reason he could feel them now was because of his little adventure earlier that morning. There were only three things he missed.

His stuffed elephant Zitka, because Dick was still seven years old and needed to comfort of his favourite toy. It had been harder than he thought it would, spending his recent nights without her comfort. He thought he could tough it out but he ended up having nightmares about his parents falling. No one hit him this time, when he woke up screaming, but a few of his neighbours did scream back. Second was the items he had taken to remember his parents, which he still hadn’t damaged like he was supposed to. No one had given Dick the spiel about “they’re still here with you, in your heart” or “they’re watching over you right how”, but holding those items made him feel close to them. Lastly was the pocket knife Wilson had given him.

He had learnt a thing or two about knives from one of the circus performers, and knew that his pocket knife had been a nice one. The handle had been light so that it was evenly weighted and although it had been a little larger in his small hands, when Dick got older it would no doubt have fit perfectly. He didn’t know what the blade was made out of, because it definitely wasn’t average steel, but whatever if was it was _strong_. So he was more than a little sad to know it was currently in police custody as evidence.

Dick slid out of the car and walked up to the front door, remaining a step or two in front of Ms. Kincaid. The door was answered by a young woman, but he didn’t bother paying attention to her, or what Ms. Kincaid was saying. Instead he was thinking of how he could get his knife back.

He couldn’t exactly break into a police station, and even if he did, Dick had no idea where the knife would be kept. He was sure there’d be some kind of special place for evidence, but he didn’t know where that would be. And without Chase’s computer, he couldn’t find out. Dick was mulling over possible plans and different scenarios in his mind when he found himself being guided inside and led upstairs. Apparently Ms. Kincaid had left already, and now the woman was talking to him. Something about rules of the house, dinner was six, things like that. He still wasn’t paying attention.

He was only broken out of his thoughts when there was a light tapping on the window beside him. Dick looked up, not even realizing that he had been sitting on the bed in his temporary room for well over half an hour now. Crouching on the roof outside was Wilson. Dick’s face broke out into a wide grin, and he immediately opened the window.

“I survived,” Dick said seriously despite the smile on his face.

“Yes, you did. But you were also caught.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t. I doubt you’ll be breaking in to any more restaurants while you’re in juvie.”

“What?”

“Oh, so you don’t know yet,” Wilson chuckled. “That’s where they’re sending you. It’s an interesting place, the Gotham Juvenile Detention Centre, the streets hardly compare. But I doubt you could survive in there.”

“Yes I could!” Dick protested, not realizing that Wilson was goading him.

“Good, because you’ll have to,” Wilson’s voice suddenly turned harsh. “Your actions drew to much attention, and you’re still far too weak.”

“You said you’d help me find Zucco, make me stronger!” Dick protest loudly. Wilson’s hand shot out and clamped around Dick’s mouth, preventing him from saying any more.

“Don’t worry, I will. But it won’t do me any good if you’re _broken_. Prove to me you’re strong enough, then I’ll help.”

Dick’s eyes widened and he nodded.

“Good. Don’t disappoint me, apprentice. And remember to make connections while you’re there.”

Dick nodded once more, and Wilson left. He continued to stare out the window for several minutes. Since their first meeting, Dick could feel Wilson’s dangerous presence. It was actually similar to Mr. Wayne’s. But he hadn’t been afraid before, because Wilson was helping him when no one else would. In fact he might have admired the man. But now Dick could feel it, that little twinge of fear that came when Wilson silenced him. This man was strong, powerful, _dangerous,_ and could probably kill Dick in an instant. This bit of fear that Dick felt, it was what he wanted Zucco to feel.

**...**

**|April 30 th**

**|10:00 am**

Dick was ready and waiting on the front steps for Ms. Kincaid when she arrived. He didn’t say anything to her, didn’t even wait for her to get out of the vehicle, just slid inside and buckled himself in. Wilson wanted Dick to prove he was strong, and that’s exactly what he would do. Keeping up with his habits, Dick completely ignored the social worker as she told him where he was going and how he deserved to be there. He didn’t resist as he was pulled from the car and shoved towards the gate of the detention centre. But staring up at the guard, who looked so much like Dean, Dick felt another twinge of fear.

He was only seven. His whole family was either dead or in a hospital. He had _broken into a restaurant_ , and now he was going to juvie. Everything was so messed up, and he knew it. The situation, the people, even _him_. He was _only seven_.

Dick could feel the steel exterior he had been building up since Dean took him in crumbling at the side of the squat, gray building that was now his home. It was wrong, everything was wrong.

The guard grabbed Dick’s arm and shoved him forwards, treating him like a common criminal. But he _was_ a criminal. Charges or no, Dick had committed a crime. And he had hurt Dean. He hated the man, absolutely _hated_ him, he deserved whatever injuries he got. But it was only now that Dick seemed to realize they were injuries _he_ gave.

Zucco was different. He killed Dick’s family, he _deserved_ to hurt. Dean did too, but now Dick was no better than he was.

Dick swallowed the lump in his throat as the guard halted in front of a cell.

“Welcome home, kid,” the guard sneered.

 _Kid_. Dick missed the way Chase said that. But she was probably dead, optimism be damned. The bodies may have been gone, but Dick was sure of it now. They were all dead, and it had been all _his fault_. He let it slip to Dean that he was visiting them, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice Dean was following. But it was so much worse than that, wasn’t it?

His family dying had been his fault too. He heard Zucco talking to Haly, he saw the man messing with the trapeze wires. But he didn’t warn his parents, and they fell.

He kept his mouth shut, and people died.

He didn’t keep his mouth shut, and people died.

And everything, all of it. It was all his fault.

“Great, another crybaby.”

Dick just barely registered the voice of his new roommate.

“And here I thought they would finally let me be after what happened to the last one.”

_All his fault, it was all his fault._

“Oh well. Hey, brat! Are you listening? This is important.”

_Everything was his fault. They died because of him. Because he didn’t help them._

“You do anything I don’t like, and that mark on your face won’t be your only scar.”

_It was all his fault._


	9. The Siblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 9

**|May 7 th**

**|3:24 pm**

He didn’t really mean to, it was completely reflex, but Dick flinched as Jeremy steadily jogged past him on the track. Jeremy sneered and slugged the smaller boy on the shoulder, causing him to stumble and bump into the girl running beside him. She, of course, spat a string of insults at Dick and shoved him away. The little acrobat recovered easily and rubbed his sore shoulder.

So far juvie was like being with Dean all over again, except this time Dick didn’t have Zitka, and he couldn’t flee his tormentor during the day. Jeremy, Dick’s cellmate, was never able to hurt him as badly as Dean did, but he also did it whenever he felt like it. With Dean it only happened when the man was angry. He got angry often, and he was brutal, but he had a reason. Technically Jeremy had reasons too, but they were vastly different. He was bored, he had done poorly during the mandatory lessons, Dick had breathed wrong. Anything could set the older boy off and Dick had the bruises to show for it. He was just happy that Jeremy didn’t have access to anything sharp besides his own nails, or anything that burned. He didn’t want any more of those small, circular marks dotting his shoulders and chest.

The sound of a whistle blowing echoed across the yard, and everyone slowed to a walk, but remained moving. Over the past week Dick had easily adjusted to a schedule, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. He had recovered somewhat after his mental break over the past few days, assisted by Jeremy’s constant beating, but his nightmares had returned full force. And his cellmate really didn’t like it when Dick woke him up with his screams. That’s how Dick’s day usually started, with horrifying nightmares and a fierce, but short, beating. At breakfast, and any other meal really, he would get jostled around by the other kids. For the rest of the morning he would have some form of lessons, which were really ineffective. They covered only basic skills that would be just barely enough for them to scrape by outside of the centre. After lunch they had to do some form of work that was apparently supposed to be a substitute for community service.

Starting at three o’clock every day, Dick’s cellblock had their half hour of mandatory exercise which just consisted of switching between walking and running at the sound of a whistle. A whistle that was giving two short blasts right now. Everyone immediately changed direction and started running again.

After exercise they would have free time in the yard, and after dinner they would be confined to their cellblock but allowed to roam until lights out. Dick had learned from some of the few kids that spoke to him without hissing insults that their cellblock, D, was for the lower class of underage criminal. Thieves, pickpockets, kids that just couldn’t stay off the streets. Kids that social services had pawned off to be dealt with elsewhere. He wasn’t sure where Jeremy fell in that spectrum, but it was apparent to Dick that the guards probably didn’t know about his violent behaviour. Or they just didn’t care.

Cellblock C is where Dick probably would have ended up if charges had actually been pressed against him because of breaking and entering, and attempting to assault an officer of the law. Other than that, kids who accidently harmed people were there as well. From what Dick knew, blocks B and A were for those that had caused any kind of intentional harm and they had less liberties in terms of free time.

One long, sharp blast from the guard’s whistle signalled that exercise was done for the day and everyone dispersed. Dick immediately walked off towards the shadow of the wall, where no one would pay attention to him and he would generally be left alone. He sat down and leaned against the wall, keeping a careful eye on Jeremy in case the older boy decided he needed to hit Dick for some reason. Out in the yard the little acrobat had a good chance of escaping without it looking like he was actually escaping. He pulled his knees close and rested his chin on his arms.

Dick didn’t know what to do. He still wanted to find Zucco, but he didn’t know how long he’d be in juvie. He was still driven, his hate for the gang lord hadn’t lessened at all, but smothering that was the overbearing feeling of guilt. The same three words had been echoing through his head.

_All my fault._

He pressed his cheek into the crook of his elbow and rubbed his face along his arm. There weren’t any tears, hadn’t been for a while. Dick was almost certain his eyes had dried permanently but he didn’t want to risk being seen crying anyways.

“Hey, Richard. Doc wants to see you.”

Dick lifted his head and looked up at the teenager standing in front of him.

“You know where his office is, right?”

He couldn’t remember this particular kids name at the moment, but recalled they had spoken maybe once before. Dick nodded rather than answering verbally. He hadn’t spoken a word in two days, ever since Jeremy threatened to cut his tongue out if he screamed in his sleep again. He didn’t want to upset the boy further, possibly instigating more punishments, so he opted into silence. Not that there was anyone for him to talk to anyways. He hated it here, and this time there was no one to help him get out of it.

At Dick’s confirming nod, the kid shrugged, shoved her hands into her pockets, and walked away. Dick watched her for a moment, then pulled himself up and brushed his pants off. He didn’t know that much about the doctor, but apparently he was the psychiatrist for the detention centre, and everyone was supposed to meet with him at least once every week and a half or so. He hadn’t met the man, or woman yet, but was shown where their office was on his first day.

As he approached the door, he found himself slowing down. Ever since he left the circus—Dick had stopped thinking of it as the day his family died—his experiences with adults had been less than savoury. Except for the commissioner, whose importance Dick had gleaned while looking at things online, Mr. Pennyworth, and Mr. Wayne. But his time with those three had been brief. Ms. Kincaid had been rude, Dean had been abusive, and the dirty cop an enemy. Dick wasn’t quite sure where Wilson lay in these categories. He had helped the little acrobat, but their last encounter had been filled with harsh words. For all that though, Wilson honestly seemed to want to assist Dick in his crusade.

Giving a quick shake of his head, Dick cleared his mind of the distracting thoughts. He just wished that the doctor had scheduled their meeting during their confined free time, to limit his time around Jeremy. With a heavy sigh the little acrobat knocked. There was an almost foreboding call of “Come in!” a second later, and Dick entered the room.

It was surprisingly nice looking. The office was along the outside of the detention centre, so there were several large windows letting in natural light. The colours inside weren’t dull, nor were they overly bright. Instead of hard plastic chairs there were plush seats, and the room seemed to exude feelings of comfort and coziness.

The man sitting behind the desk gave of a similar feeling. He had a warm smile and looked kind of enough Dick took a moment to look him over, examining his smile for any hint of the deceit that could be found in Ms. Kincaid’s strained lips. He found none. The doctor had been speaking while Dick was observing, and the little acrobat realized that he had missed the man’s introduction. A little embarrassed at his mistake, Dick felt his cheeks rushing red.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything. I meet everyone within their first two weeks here,” the doctor said, apparently misunderstanding the meaning behind Dick’s flushed cheeks. The young boy decided he could call the man Doc, just like everyone else did. He stepped into the room completely, letting the door close behind him, and took the seat in front of Doc’s desk.

“My purpose here at the centre—” Dick scoffed at that, _centre_. He should just say prison. “—is to assist with rehabilitation. Helping you and others like you reform and abandon any criminal tendencies you may have. I’m also here to be someone you’re able to talk to.”

Doc paused, if he expected Dick to pour his young heart out at his little prompt. He continued speaking when Dick remained silent.

“Before you arrived, I was given information on your case, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dick hated those five words, at least while spoken in that order. They were a reflex, devoid of any true meaning, and they didn’t make anything better.

“I understand that witnessing such an accident—”

It was no accident.

“—can be scarring. And you must currently be in a fragile motional state.”

That was an understatement.

“But you were able to find a new family with Dean Whedon.”

So that was his last name. And family? Dick doubted he’d ever find a new family. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted one now.

“But I’ve read that you went missing for several days, and that Mr. Whedon is still missing. Would you be able to tell me what happened?”

Dick considered the question. He had a feeling that Wilson wouldn’t appreciate it if he went and told Doc about his existence, and involvement in Dick’s liberation. He could provide an edited version of the story. Dean abused him, so he ran away. But that didn’t explain Dean’s disappearance. He wasn’t about to admit to helping beat up the evil man because that could just make his situation worse, and then he’d never have the chance to find Zucco. He decided to just shake his head.

“I see. I won’t press the issue further now—”

It really wasn’t an issue. Wilson had taken care of Dean.

“—but I’m hoping you will tell me what you can someday soon. While you’re here, there’s one more thing I’d like to talk to you about. No charges may have been pressed but it still happened. Why did you break into that restaurant?”

This question Dick could easily answer. He paused, glancing back towards the door as if someone could be waiting outside to snitch to Jeremy if he spoke. But he didn’t want Doc asking too many questions, so he risked it.

“Food,” Dick said. It was simple, and believable, but Doc didn’t buy it.

“I’d like to think that was true, but I think we both know it’s not. Not only were you caught on cameras rifling through cabinets rather than sneaking into the pantry, but there are easier places to steal from. Like a gas station or a convenience store. So, Richard, why did you break into that restaurant?” Doc leaned forwards and folded his hands, giving Dick an encouraging smile.

“Good food,” Dick smirked, but the smile he gave was empty.

Doc just sighed in response and seemed to slump a little in his sleep. “I see, you’re not willing to share anything with me yet, but I hope you will soon. How have you been adjusting?”

Dick opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated when he realized he didn’t actually know that word. He could guess what it meant based on the question, but wanted to be positive. “A-justing?”

“Um, how are you… getting used to the change?”

“Oh. Okay,” Dick shrugged and shifted in his seat, very conscious of the bruises hidden beneath his white t-shirt.

“I think you should be used to the schedule by now, but what about your roommate?”

“He’s fine.”

“We’ve had some trouble with him in the past. Nothing we could actually prove, but there are suspicions. Are you _sure_ he’s fine?” Doc pressed.

Dick felt panic building in his chest. If Doc continued with this line of questioning, there was a chance that he would accidentally let something slip as he struggled to keep his answers vague. And if he let something slip, then Jeremy would find out, and if Jeremy found then he would hit Dick again.

“Sunt sigur _._ ” [ _I’m sure_ ] He slipped back into his native tongue without realizing it. Dick fidgeted for a moment under Doc’s scrutinizing stare. It was obvious that the man didn’t believe Dick, but without an actual confirmation there was nothing he could do.

“I just have one more question for you, then you can go. What would your family think of your actions?”

Dick, who had been just starting to relax, immediately stiffened. He knew what they would think. They would be ashamed of him and disappointed, but if they were in the same situation then they would understand. He was doing this _for_ them, he _would_ do anything for them. A nagging voice in the back of his head scolded him, saying he was doing this for himself, for revenge. That was true too, but he wanted revenge for _them_ , not just himself. Despite these self-justifying thoughts Dick’s eyes started to burn, which annoyed him greatly. Every time he thought his eyes had finally dried for good something happened and he felt like he wanted to cry again. He shook his head and looked almost defiantly up at Doc, taking a few seconds to make sure he had the correct word.

“They would understand.”

...

**|May 12 th**

**|7:07 pm**

It had been five days since Dick had spoken to Doc. In fact, it had been five days since he had spoken at all. The night after he saw Doc, Dick had had a particularly bad nightmare. The punishment for his screaming? A sharp jab to the throat. He had tried to speak at first, but his voice hadn’t sounded right. It hadn’t sounded like a voice at all, just a strange, croaky, guttural noise. So he hadn’t spoken again, but there was no one to talk to anyways. The other kids at the detention centre may have been pitying towards Dick’s plight at first, he had watched his whole family die after all. But Jeremy wasn’t the only one was getting awoken by his screams, and it seemed that the older boy had convinced the centre at large to do one of two things. Either completely ignore Dick’s existence, or make his life worse.

Thankfully, most people chose just to ignore him. He was extremely lonely, but that was much better than the alternative. The few kids that had joined Jeremy in his crusade to torture Dick were ruthless. They were careful with their beatings, making sure that any bruises left could be covered by the standard issue uniform. The ‘beatings’ may not have been extensive, just a punch here, a kick there, but they were frequent.

Dick was curled up in the corner of his cell. Technically it was free time right now, but he didn’t want to walk around. He just wanted to stay out of the way. He hissed as the heel of his palm pressed into a bruise on his shin, which was among the latest of his injuries. When he heard people approaching, Dick made himself as small as possible and, in a childish move, turned his back to the door. If he didn’t see them, maybe they wouldn’t see him.

“…in a few days.”

“Really? I know we live in _Gotham_ , but we just got a new kid. We’re getting two more already?”

“Apparently. Heard Doc talking to the warden about it. A brother and sister or something, and the girl is as young as the newbie.”

“Wow. And how old is he, like, six or something? For the centre, that’s really young, I wonder what they…”

The voices faded and Dick allowed himself time to relax. It was still early, which meant that Jeremy wouldn’t be back in a while. Maybe if dick was asleep by that time, or at least pretending to be, his cellmate would leave him alone. He lay flat on his bed, barely pulling the scratchy, wool blanket over his body, and closed his eyes I the hopes that he would no longer be conscious when Jeremy returned.

...

**|May 15 th**

**|4:41 pm**

Dick was walking around the yard, not too far from the inner fence, and generally staying out of everyone’s way when the two new kids he had heard about arrived. Technically, they had probably arrived around four, but with the ‘orientation’ and ‘tour’, they were only entering the yard now. The two kids Dick had overheard a few days were correct. They did appear to be siblings if their similar facial features were anything to go by. The boy had blond hair, and appeared to be a few years older than Dick. Possibly even a teenager. The girl was small, and did look to be around Dick’s age. She also had shockingly white hair.

He took to observing them from afar as they, in turn, scanned the yard. There was something odd about them, and neither seemed to cower when some of the older kids approached, whether to welcome or intimidate was up to Dick to guess. He assumed it was the latter. Either way, the brother just snapped at those that approached, then continued his surveying of the area. Dick was just losing interest when the sister seemed to notice him, and tugged on her brother’s sleeve. She immediately pointed in Dick’s direction and the two started walking towards them.

Dick continued walking, not wanting to attract the unwanted attention that would come from them approaching him, but there was no helping it when they simply followed and cornered him at the edge of the yard.

“Are you Richard Grayson?” The brother asked, staring down at Dick.

Dick, still unwilling to speak, just stared right back.

“Blue eyes, black hair, and he’s young. I think he is,” the sister said. She was smiling at Dick, and found himself to be blushing. His mother always told him that there was a secret hidden meaning behind a girl’s honest smile. She hadn’t really said what it was, but mentioned something about when she had first met his father. Dick still didn’t know what she meant, but the sister seemed to be smiling honestly at him.

“But we have to be sure, Dad won’t tolerate it if we’re not,” the brother scolded. Dick took note of the way the brother said ‘Dad’. Admirably, but with a hint of anger. “You gotta answer, are you Richard Grayson?”

Finally, Dick nodded.

“Good, great. This is so much easier. I’m Grant, pipsqueak is my little sister Rose.”

“ _Half_ -sister,” Rose corrected.

Dick raised an eyebrow, an action which seemingly satisfied his need to ask any ask-able questions during this instance. Rose seemed confused, but apparently Grant understood.

“Our Dad sent us, since he can’t help you himself right now. We’re supposed to train you.”

Dick crossed his arms. _Prove it_.

“Listen, we don’t know what you call him, and just in case he didn’t use his real name, we can’t give it to you. Identities could be compromised and all that,” Grant said, waving off Dick’s unvoiced question. But the little acrobat remained firm. Grant and Rose may have provided a reason to approach him, but that didn’t mean he believed them. Not without evidence anyways.

“Oh, fine, whatever. Rose, just give it to him,” Grant waved his sister forwards, rolling his eyes at the antics of the younger boy.

“Okay,” Rose spoke brightly and reached into her pocket. She grabbed one of Dick’s hands, and slid her own over top, depositing something into his palm. Dick started to uncurl his fingers when Grant grabbed his arm. Immediately, Dick pulled back. He really didn’t like it when people grabbed him.

“Make sure the guards can’t see. It wasn’t really easy bringing that thing here, I don’t want you blowing it because of a stupid rookie mistake,” Grant hissed. He stepped to the side, blocking Dick from view of one of the guards. After taking a moment to check if any others could see him, Dick finally looked at the familiar feeling object in his hands. It was, of all things, a knife. How exactly two kids had managed to sneak a knife into a juvenile detention centre, he had no idea. But Grant did say it had been difficult. That wasn’t all, though. It wasn’t just any knife, it was the knife the Wilson had given Dick. The knife that the police had confiscated when they caught him. The blade was clean of the police officers blood, and it didn’t look like it was some kind of replica. It felt the same in his hand and it even had the small S engraved on the bottom of the hilt. He shoved the knife into his pocket before anyone else could see.

“So you believe us now?” Rose asked.

Dick nodded, and couldn’t help the joy that he felt. Wilson hadn’t forgotten about him during the last week or so, something which he had been worrying would happen. Instead he was working around their current situation so that he could uphold his deal with dick. Although Wilson _had_ told him to survive. Maybe Grant and Rose were here to make sure he did just that, and to make sure Dick didn’t fail again or screw up somehow.

“Good. We’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast then, and we’ll start in the afternoon. Come on, Rose. We’re supposed to see some doctor guy or something now.”

“Okay. Bye, Richard. See you later,” Rose gave Dick a small wave and trotted off after her brother. Dick wave back, although her back was already turned to him, and lowered a hand back into his pocket. His fingers curled around the familiar hint, glad he had some token to remind him of who he was, and what he was going to do.


	10. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 10

**|May 16 th**

**|8:00 am**

Dick shuffled through the line at the cafeteria, barely paying any attention to the 'food' that was being spooned onto his tray with a loud splat. He kept his eyes trained on the door as he made his way to the table in the corner that he had taken to eating at. From his seat in the corner he could see the entire cafeteria, and observe everyone. He pushed the slop on his plate around with his spoon, distractedly raising it to his lips every now and then. He was keeping an eye out for Grant and Rose, and found himself sitting up just a little straighter when they entered.

He tracked their movements as they went through the food line themselves, then started walking between the tables. Rose reached Dick first, and dropped her tray down beside his before sliding onto her chair. She scooted over so that there were only inches between them. Grant sat down across from them.

"How long have you been in here?" Grant asked.

Dick thought for a moment, then held up two fingers.

"Two days?"

He shook his head.

"I think he means weeks," Rose piped up, and she beamed at the confirming nod she received from the little acrobat.

"Then just say it," Grant grumbled. Dick glared at Grant, and pulled at the collar of his shirt, drawing the siblings' eyes to the bruises on his throat. "Oh."

"We could use sign language," Rose offered, and she started making motions with her hands. Dick, who was unfamiliar with the nonverbal language, was completely lost as to what Rose was saying, but Grant seemed to understand. In fact, it almost looked like they were having a debate with the way the older boy scowled.

"Fine," Grant finally said, slumping a little in his seat. "We can teach you sign language so you don't actually have to talk."

Dick grinned and nudged Rose in thanks. With a flat hand, she touched her fingers to her lips and moved her hand forwards towards Dick.

"Your first lesson. That, is thank you," Rose said.

Dick imitated her motion, and Rose made another, raising a cupped hand and swooping it down towards her abdomen.

"You're welcome," she said at the same time. Dick copied the movement, and that's how they spent the rest of their meal. Rose would show him a sign, telling him what it meant, and Dick would repeat it. Grant occasionally butted in to correct his sister whenever she made the wrong motion, but otherwise remained silent.

Dick was disappointed when a guard's booming voice called out that it was time for classes. He didn't expect to make friends in juvie, but he also didn't expect people to avoid him like they did. It was nice being able to speak to Rose and Grant, even if they weren't actually speaking. Although Dick was learning.

"We'll find you after lunch," Grant said, then he dragged his sister down the hall. Rose looked back and waved. Dick waved back, but they had already turned a corner and were out of sight. He sighed heavily and started trudging to class. He wasn't sure how class placement was decided at the centre, but for some reason he was the youngest in the room. Dick had never been to a formal school before, having been homeschooled by his mother and Aunt Karla. But he was confident that usually the kids were all around the same age. He didn't mind too much though, because no one really paid attention to him. He usually sat in the back and did his best to follow along with whatever lesson was being given. Dick's English was improving drastically, but he still had a lot to learn and the written stuff could be annoying.

Dick was hardly paying attention and almost missed the shuffle of movement that signalled lessons were over. He was jolted out of his stupor by one of the older kids purposefully elbowing him while they walked by and waited until the room was mostly empty before leaving himself and heading for lunch. He spent the hour watching out for Grant and Rose but never saw them. There was a chance they had a different meal time. Lunch was staggered because of their 'community service'. Dick ate his mealy quietly, reviewing a few of the signs Rose had taught him that morning, and dejectedly headed off for his three hours of work.

When he first arrived, Dick had been saddled with custodial, which sucked. There were apparently very few people who knew about Dick's situation and why he was at the detention centre. Doc had found out and tried to arrange for Dick to be given more freedom. Most of Doc's requests had been denied, but they did give him one thing. Dick was now allowed to choose his 'community service'. It hadn't taken much thought. The centre didn't have anything related to computers, which didn't surprise him. Electrical was the closest thing. It revolved around fixing anything with wires throughout the centre.

Typically only the older teenagers were allowed in electrical, and they were under heavy supervision. The guards in charge underestimated Dick and just left him to his own devices rather than giving him anything to fix, which worked out perfectly for him. He entered the work room, which the older kids nicknamed the Garage, and beelined for a table pushed against the back wall. Scraps of wire and bits of metal were scattered across it along with a few books about wiring. Everyone else started with their recent projects, ignoring Dick entirely.

He picked up one of his books and started reading. Dick had barely made it through the first two sentences when he felt something wrap around his ankle. He practically jumped out of his seat, silencing a high-pitched shriek, and yanked his ankle away. A few people had look his way during the commotion but it otherwise went unnoticed.

Dick ducked under the table to see what was there and saw long white hair.

"Hi." Rose grinned and pushed aside the boxes she was ducking behind. "It's time for training, let's go."

Dick blinked at Rose, then looked around the Garage. The guards were all looking away, and it didn't appear to be by chance. Now that he thought about it, how had Rose gotten inside in the first place?

"Come on, Grant's waiting," Rose whispered. She turned around started crawling into a hole in the wall. Dick noticed that it was actually a vent. The cover was leaning against the wall, with the four screws meticulously lined up beside it. So Rose had opened it from inside the Garage, meaning a guard had to have let her in. He decided not to dwell on it too much and followed her. When they emerged from the vent, Dick almost didn't think they were still in the detention centre. The room they were in looked like a normal living room for the most part. There was a couch, a table, and a TV. Although the furniture was pushed up against the wall, and the walls themselves were a bleak grey.

He looked to Grant, who was standing in the middle of the room, for an explanation.

"It's a private visitors room, used for special occasions. If it's some kids birthday and family comes to visit, sappy stuff like that," Grant said. Dick nodded stiffly, trying not to think about the fact that he would never have family visit him. "The rooms aren't used often, so this is where we'll train you. Our dad arranged everything."

"Do you have the knife?" Rose asked, popping up in front of her brother.

"Uh-huh." Dick bent down and pulled the knife from where he stashed it in his sock, hidden by his pantleg. It may have been a cliché hiding place, but it was effective.

"Hey, does that mean you'll be speaking to us now?"

Dick didn't realize that he had vocalized, but now that he did he was looking around as if expecting Jeremy to pop up and punch him for talking. He didn't, obviously, but Dick didn't speak again.

"That's fine, I can keep teaching you sign language." Rose beamed.

"And that's fine, but fighting comes first. Hand-to-hand and knife work, if you think you're up to it," Grant challenged.

Dick tightened his hold on the knife in his hand and smirked.

...

**|May 27 th**

**|12:53 pm**

"Richard, can I speak to you?"

Dick turned on his heels and silently followed Doc to his office. He had just been on his way to the Garage for his hours of work when Doc called him out in the hall. He hadn't been expecting another meeting so soon and hoped that it wouldn't take too long. He was supposed to see Grant and Rose for training soon.

Dick lowered himself into the chair across from Doc.

"I've been talking to some of the other kids in your block, and they said you haven't been speaking at all?" Doc asked. Dick resisted the urge to scoff. If Doc had already spoken to them, why was he asking him?

"It's safe to speak in here. Nothing you say will leave this room." Doc waited for some form of reply, verbal or otherwise. When Dick remained silent Doc sighed and continued speaking. "I've noticed that you've been behaving a little differently over the past couple of days, and not just your lack of speaking. Is there anything going on that you'd like to tell me? Are you have any trouble with your roommate?"

Dick frowned at the roommate comment. Couldn't he just say cellmate like everyone else did? Sometimes it just seemed like Doc was trying to hard to make Dick's situation seem better then it actually was. He shook his head. There was no reason for Doc to know about the abuse Dick received at the hands of Jeremy and his friends. He also didn't need to know about what Dick actually did during his work hours.

"You really can speak to me."

Dick made a point of looking anywhere but Doc.

"I'll be here when you're ready. But that isn't the only thing I wanted to talk to you about. I was recently contacted and informed that you'll be having a visitor some time next week. I don't know the exact date, but I thought I would let you know. I'll contact you when I learn more," Doc said. He told Dick that he could go, and the ebony-haired boy walked trance-like into the hallway.

Someone was coming to visit him. But who?

...

**|2:17 pm**

Dick jumped away from Grant, ducking his shoulder to avoid the spoon that acted as his opponent's knife. He felt a little insulted that Grant still refused to use something resembling a knife for their sessions. They had been training for a week and a half and Dick's acrobatic skills had transferred over well, meaning he had learned fast. He still had a lot to learn, but according to Grant Dick was already a better fighter than Rose-she had explained after that that was because their dad refused to train her right now. As it was, with Grant using a spoon as a substitute, Dick felt that he was too relaxed. If he were in a real fight his opponent wouldn't be holding a spoon. But Grant was training him, and Dick was thankful for that.

He rolled under the next jab and somersaulted through Grant's legs, lashing out at the last moment to grab the teenagers ankle and yank him off balance. The move worked and Grant came crashing down. Apparently he wasn't as good as he boasted. Dick rose to his feet and grinned at Grant.

"I win," Dick signed.

"Just once," Grant stated and stretched out his arms.

"But I thought _no one_ could beat you," Rose taunted from her seat on the couch.

"Oh, shut up," he grumbled and Rose laughed. Dick glanced at the clock on the wall. In about forty minutes their cell block would be heading out for exercise. Usually around this time Dick would head back to the Garage, and Rose and Grant would head to... wherever they were when they weren't with him. Dick was walking back to the vent when Grant stopped him with a light hand on his shoulder. After he had several averse reactions to arm grabbing, Grant had finally gotten the message.

"Rose, I want to talk to Dick."

"Okay," Rose chirped but didn't move.

"I meant I want to talk to him alone," Grant clarified.

"Okay," Rose sighed and left the room. Dick turned expectantly towards Grant to find that the older boy had taken his sister's abandoned seat. Dick joined him on the couch and started toying with the knife. He flicked his wrist, sheathing the blade.

"You should fight back," Grant said.

Dick frowned in confusion. He fought back all the time, that was how his training worked. He nudged Grant to show that he didn't understand.

"Against that Jeremy kid, you should fight back one of these days," Grant clarified. Dick kept his eyes locked on the knife, deciding to just listen.

"You aren't that great at hiding bruises." Grant shrugged, but he seemed nervous about something. "My dad told us about what happened with Dean, and what you did."

Dick shifted in his seat and pocketed his knife. He didn't really do much to Dean. Except for that kick to the face. And when he was repeatedly hitting him with a wrench. But that was all.

"But you have to admit, it felt good, right?" Grant asked. Dick paused a moment to think, and finally nodded. He wasn't sure how he felt about Grant bringing everything up, or about the fact that Wilson had told him what happened. But there was one more thing bothering him. Grant didn't just sound nervous, he actually sounded a little guilty too. Dick just couldn't figure out what for.

"I wanted to let you know something. I have three siblings, although I'm not completely related to any of them. Obviously you already know Rose, my little sister. There's also Joseph who's actually Rose's full-blooded brother but... there were some family issues. He's living with his mother. And then there's you."

Dick froze and looked up at Grant, wondering if he heard him wrong. Had Grant just called him his brother?

"You're a good kid and I like you. Even though I haven't known you long, you're sort of like the little brother I'm actually allowed to see." Grant coughed as if he was embarrassed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Anyways, no matter what happens, I'll be here to help you out. I'll have your back when you need it."

Dick ducked his head and clapped a hand over his lips, trying to quell the smile that was creeping onto his lips. The sentiment was nice, but Dick needed to keep in mind that families and him didn't mix well. After all, he just kept losing them. He didn't want to lose a third.

It was for this reason that he didn't reply to Grant. Instead he slowly removed himself from the couch, shuffled across the room, and crawled back to the Garage.


	11. Your Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 11
> 
> Sign language is italicized between colons

_Dick was standing on a trapeze platform, looking around the main tent. The stand were empty but the distorted echo of applause and laughter echoed around the tent. Just moment ago he had witness his family fall to their deaths again. And again. And again. And again. The trapeze was empty now, the broken rope swinging gracefully between the platforms with no signs of slowing. He was afraid to look to the center of the ring, but there was nowhere else to look now. He could only count the alternating red and white stripes so many times._

_Dick crawled to the edge of the platform, clinging to the sturdy would with a white knuckled grip. Slowly, he dragged himself forwards and looked down. He sighed in relief when he didn't see any bodies, but the ground was still stained red. A discordant clanging sounded from somewhere behind him, but he ignored it. The splatters of blood were detailed enough for him to picture their bodies lying below. There, where the blood looked streaked, was his mother had lain. Her hair had dragged through it when the coroners moved her, creating the pattern. There was a similar splatter some feet away, that had been Aunt Karla._

_In the center, that had been Johnny. The one beside that was Uncle Rick. It was such a minor detail to register, but Dick could remember seeing Rick trying to position himself underneath his son, trying to save him. It hadn't worked. Ironically, Rick was the one to survive. The final splatter was all that remained of Dick's father._

_He shuddered, feeling the tears build up in his eyes. The clanging had gotten louder and Dick finally wasn't able to ignore it. He turned, then scrambled to his feet. Standing behind him on the platform was his family. Twisted necks, broken limbs, and all. They seemed to loom over him, except for Rick who was propping himself up with his arms, legs still paralyzed._

_Dick tried to take a step backwards, but his heel dipped where the platform ended. He couldn't jump to the trapeze, it was too far away. There was nowhere else for him to go._

_Rick started groaning and lifted a mangled arm, then slowly pulled himself forwards. One of his elbows was wrong, bent inwards, and made a sickening crack every time it bent._

_"Dick." Dick's eyes snapped up to his father, who had spoken. His parents were looking at him with intense disappointment._

_"You could have saved us," John said. He bent down and placed a hand on Dick's messy locks._

_"I-I tried, but you didn't-" Dick protested, but his words faded into a loud sob when Rick's hand fell on his shoulder._

_"You didn't try," Uncle Rick said, his breath hot on Dick's face._

_"I did! I tried!" Dick cried. Mary stepped forwards now, dragging a mangled leg behind her._

_"My little Robin, did you not care about us?" Mary asked. She pressed a gentle hand against Dick's cheek._

_"I did!" Dick repeated, hysterical now. "I do, te iubesc!" [I love you]_

_"Don't lie, you didn't love us." It was Aunt Karla this time, her hand falling on Dick's other shoulder. "You wanted us to die."_

_"Te iubesc, te iubesc!" Dick was screaming now, trying to get them to understand. He didn't want that, he never wanted that. He wanted to be with them again._

_Suddenly Johnny was inches away from him, glaring down at him. The judging stares of his family could be seen over Johnny's shoulder. Johnny pressed his hand against Dick's forehead, causing him to teeter back dangerously._

_"It's all your fault," Johnny said, and then they pushed._

...

**|May 31 st**

**|7:18 am**

Dick jolted awake with a pained gasp. He had opened his eyes before he could hit the ground, and found himself hitting it for real. He was lying on his stomach and clutching his nose. It wasn't broken or anything, but certainly bleeding. Even if the fall from his bed was little more than a foot, smacking face first into concrete was bound to cause some damage. He sat up slowly, blinking away the tears that had gathered in his eyes, and saw Jeremy glaring at him.

"Wake me up again, and I'll do more than push you off your bed," Jeremy snapped and left Dick alone in their cell. The little acrobat resisted the urge to sniff, knowing it would only cause the blood to be sucked up his nose. Instead he tilted his head back and wiped the blood away as best as he could. He decided that Jeremy must have been in a good mood that morning, since pushing Dick off his bed was all that he did.

When the blood had stopped and Dick was able to compose himself, he peeked out into the hall and zeroed in on the clock hanging high up on the wall. He could go for breakfast early if he wanted, but there was still half an hour until he had to eat. Based on hallways activity, it looked like most people were eating early. Dick started to remember why, before he remembered what day it was. Saturday.

There were normal visiting hours every other day of the week, although never having a visitor before Dick didn't know what those hours were. He just knew that you would be pulled out of whatever you were doing and given an hour with you visitor. But Saturday was different. There were no lessons, which meant more free time, and longer visiting times. And today Dick was getting a visitor. Doc had pulled him aside yesterday to let him know, but hadn't been able to provide Dick with a name. Apparently there was a lot going on to keep it hushed up.

For a brief, shining moment, Dick wondered if it was his uncle, awake and healed. But his uncle wouldn't keep the visit a secret. And after his dream last night, Dick wasn't sure if he would be able to face him anyways. Because what happened _was_ his fault, and if Uncle Rick woke up, then surely he would do everything he could to make sure Dick knew that.

He waited until most other kids would be finished eating before heading out himself. Rose was sitting at their usual table, although Grant was absent. Dick joined her and they started up a silent conversation between bites of food. They mostly focused on new signs, but Rose would occasionally threw in a question to quiz Dick on their recent lessons. Grant had been the one to request that. He said that if they insisted on talking so much, then Rose should at least make sure Dick was remembering everything Grant was teaching him.

Dick's moral compass had been spinning madly in recent months. During his brief stint on the street, he had stolen and attacked people (although they always attacked first, but that was a story for another time). Now he was learning the most efficient ways to incapacitate someone with either a knife or his bare hands in the fewest moves possible. Grant had emphasized many times it was always better to incapacitate them permanently. One day Dick would realize that he should have been uncomfortable, learning the best ways to deliver a quick and lethal jab with a knife. But he had been young and relatively innocent enough before his parents' deaths that he had never witnessed any kind of 'murder is wrong' talk. It wasn't usually a topic brought up around children. Because of this he didn't fully realize the gravity of what he was learning, but he knew exactly who he would use his newfound skills on and what they would do. After all, Zucco needed to be permanently incapacitated.

 _::How do you stab someone in the chest?::_ Rose signed while Dick swallowed a spoonful and runny porridge.

 _::Under the ribs, not through. The blade could accidently hit bone.::_ Dick signed back.

 _::Yes! Have a red star.::_ Rose leaned across the table and pretended to stick something on Dick's shirt. He just frowned at her in confusion.

_::Like a gold star, but red because blood?::_

Dick shook his head and Rose sighed dramatically.

"The things I must teach you," she said with a smirk. "Teachers do it, at school. Not here, since this is _juvie_."

Rose whispered the last word conspiratorially.

"When you do something good, you get a gold star. The more stars you have, the better you are. I never got them at my school, though."

Dick gave her a questioning look.

"Not _everyone_ gets homeschooled, ya know. Although I guess I am now. I used to go to a regular school before my dad took me in, they had a board for golden stars."

_::Why didn't you get any?::_

"Because I wasn't a good kid." Rose gave Dick a sly smile and he found himself blushing. Rose's gaze strayed to something behind Dick, and she stood up with her food tray in her hands. "Grant's here, let's go."

Dick followed her, returning their trays to the kitchen, and met Grant outside the cafeteria.

"How'd it go?" Rose asked.

"Good. He said he'll talk to you after," Grant answered. Dick looked between the two siblings, wondering what they were talking about.

"Okay. And when is D-" Rose was cut off by a guard approaching the trio. This particular guard didn't look too intimidating. She was one of few.

"Richard Grayson, you have a visitor waiting for you," the guard said and motioned for Dick to follow her. Dick's face lit up and he grinned in anticipation.

 _::Good luck::_ Rose signed, although Dick wasn't sure why. Grant just shrugged and gave a half-hearted wave before Dick walked away. When they passed by the hallway leading to the Garage, Dick knew that he was being taken to the private rooms rather than the normal visiting room. Since today wasn't a special event, that left few explanations, and none of them really made sense to him. Dick stood off to the side as the guard opened the door, and as a result didn't see the person inside right away. He stopped through the door and was momentarily distracted by the slam when the guard closed it.

"You need to work on masking your situational response," a familiar, smooth voice said. Dick looked to the figure standing off to the side of the room. White hair, cargo pants and jacket. It was Wilson. He completely forget about Wilson's slight harshness during their last meeting. Dick was just glad to see a familiar face. He would have leapt forwards to hug the man, but he didn't really seem the type. It had been a while since Dick had seen him, but now that they were meeting in an area that was actually well lit, he noticed something about the man's appearance. His right eye looked a little strange, like it carried a sheen that the other lacked. His right pupil also didn't appear to be as small as the left one.

"Grant has told me about your training so far," Wilson said, stepping forwards into the center of the room and distracting Dick from his eye. "Hand-to-hand combat, and knife skills. He said you're coming along well."

Dick's smile grew.

"But he can be prideful and still has a lot of training to undergo himself. I'll be judging your skills properly," Wilson continued, and the smile faltered slightly. Dick was about to ask what he meant, using sign language naturally, when Wilson leapt forwards. Caught off guard, Dick wasn't even able to try dodging the punch that Wilson threw. It was strong and sent him crashing back against the wall, but Dick knew that he was holding back. Wilson attacked again, but this time Dick was prepared. He stumbled back into a roll, barely ducking under the punch. When he rose to his feet he saw a foot coming towards him. Dick jumped up, pushing off Wilson's leg to gain more air, and nearly fell off the coffee table when he landed on it.

"Be aware of your surroundings," Wilson instructed before lashing out again. Dick flipped backwards and they settled into a game of cat and mouse. He remained on the defense, jumping and flipping away from Wilson's attacks. Dick ended up backed into a corner, unable to dodge the kick being sent his way. With no other options, Dick raised his arms and attempted to block it. Wilson's kick stopped short and instead he hooked his boot around Dick's arms, yanking the boy forwards. Dick stumbled and dropped into a somersault in an attempt to regain his foot, passing underneath Wilson. He popped up and receded to a safe distance.

"You're only defending. There's no way to gain the upper hand in a fight if you don't attack," Wilson said. Dick continued to dodge, quickly going tired. He was used to hours of practice at the circus, but it had been quite some time since he'd done something so physical demanding. Wilson was faster and stronger than Grant, making this harder than their daily sessions.

"Attack!" Wilson demanded, and Dick listened. As he ducked under the next punch, instead of skipping away he jump forwards and brought his fist up to hit Wilson in the gut. The older man easily caught the punch. Dick grabbed Wilson's wrist and braced his feet against him. Using Wilson's grip against him, Dick flipped around, attempting to use Wilson's own weight to twist his arm and loosen his hold. He hadn't really expected it to work, so when Wilson let go Dick ended up falling onto his back. He cringed, waiting for the attack he wouldn't be able to dodge, but it didn't come.

Dick opened his eyes to see Wilson actually smiling at him and holding out a hand, which he took.

"You have a long way to go, but your skills are developing quickly."

Dick beamed at the praise and signed a quick thank you.

"You're not speaking," Wilson observed. Apparently Grant hadn't told him everything. "There's no bruising, so if you were injured, it's healed now. Did they break you after all?"

Dick blinked and recalled their conversation before he was carted off to juvie.

"Training you might not be worth it, then."

But that couldn't happen. Dick _needed_ this training. Then, when he proved himself, Wilson could get him out of here and he could finally track down Zucco.

"If that's the case, then Grant and Rose will be leaving tonight, and you can enjoy the next eleven years in juvenile hall." Wilson turned away and started walking to the door. He was going to leave.

"No!" The single syllable was heavily accented. Dick ran forwards and stood in Wilson's path. "They stay, and I prove myself."

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me," Wilson grinned. "Rose and Grant will continue to train you. Every two weeks I'll see how your training is coming along, and I'll train you myself."

Dick nodded and stood at attention like the good little apprentice he was. At least he thought apprentice was the right word. Rose had mentioned it at some point, how that's what you called someone who was training under a master. It was something like that.

"Good. Your lessons for today. Exploit weaknesses, and use any method to gain the upper hand in a fight," Wilson instructed. Dick nodded and listened avidly as he started to explain the various ways to identify a physical weakness.


	12. Empty Fists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 12

**|June 16 th**

**|2:36 pm**

Dick found himself glaring at the device in his hands. He didn’t know what it was, how it worked, or what it was supposed to do. But two days ago, during his second session with Wilson, the man had given it to Dick and told him to fix it. He was in the Garage, having decided the day before that he would forgo training with Grant that day to instead do what Wilson asked.

It was proving rather difficult.

The device didn’t even look complete. It was fairly small, and could sit comfortably in the palm of Dick’s hand. It was circular, about four inches in diameter, and one, maybe one and a half in height. One side was convex, curving outwards slightly to make a flattened dome. The metal there was carved and the tics along the outside reminded him of a clock face. The other side, which Dick assumed was the back, lacked a cover, exposing the wiring inside. A few of the wires were stripped and twisted together, and a few more were frayed. But there were two parts of the device that confused him greatly. What appeared to be a golden jewel of some kind, set inside a ring with conductors holding it in place. And another spot devoid of the mess of wires. It looked like something was supposed to fit in there, but that could have been anything.

Dick sighed and turned the device over in his hands once again. On the bottom, or what looked like the bottom, was an S. Similar to the one in the handle of his pocket knife. His thumb grazed the groves circling the insignia and he experimentally pressed down. Surprisingly, there was some, but not from what he thought had been a button. It actually came from the front. He lay the device down flat and stared at the curved surface. He pressed it again, and once again it give in with a soft click. Not a lot, just enough to feel it. He twisted it, and the notched face turned, clicking as it went around. But when he let go, nothing happened.

It still needed a power source of some kind. Maybe some kind of magic.

Before she died, his grandmother had told him a few things about Romani magic, and he believed her. But he didn’t understand how it worked or what it was to be used for. The other members of her community had plainly displayed their distaste at him learning these things, so she hadn’t taught him much. But Dick wished that she had. He could use some magic right about now.

...

**|June 28 th**

**|3:03 pm**

Dick’s stomach was growling with hunger as he left the visiting room to be escorted back to the main cell area. It was only his third session with Wilson, but he felt that he had improved greatly. He had been training with Grant for over a month now, and Wilson always tried to push him to his limits when they met. This session went two hours longer than the first two, and started an hour earlier, so he had missed both breakfast and lunch. That had been part of his training for the day. An attack could come at any moment, whether you are prepared for it or not, and there’s no guarantee that he’d be well rested and well fed when it came. Dick needed to learn endurance in unfavourable conditions.

He had been a little upset when, during their session, he couldn’t tell Wilson that he had fixed the mysterious device. He didn’t understand what the jewel was supposed to do, and had no idea what the missing piece was. Wilson hadn’t seemed angry, but Dick could tell he had been disappointed. He kept the device with him at all times, tucked away in the waist band of his jeans, and worked on it whenever he found the time.

The guard left Dick just inside the cell block, and the ebony haired boy shuffled towards his cell, eyes scanning the empty ones around him. He had taken the first two things Wilson taught him—or told him more accurately—to heart and worked on his observational skills, and controlling his reactions. It was for both these reasons that he kept his face impassive when Rose abruptly jumped out at him, hands raised and fingers curled as if they were claws, and letting out a roar that was honestly more adorable than fearsome.

A couple weeks ago Dick would have jumped or squeaked in surprise. But now he just raised an eyebrow and playfully pushed her away.

“Aw, you’re no fun anymore. I knew you would stop getting scared if I listened,” Rose grumbled.

“Listened?” Dick asked, signing the word at the same time. He may have started speaking around Rose and Grant, but he still didn’t say much, and sign language was a useful skill worth practicing.

“Daddy told Grant and me to keep trying to surprise you last time he was here,” she explained. Now the past fortnight’s worth of jump scares and sudden shouts made sense. Although Dick couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. He thought his lack or reactions could be attributed to his growing skills, but now he knew better. He was just unconsciously expecting one of the siblings to jump out at him at any time now, so he was always prepared for it. Although that could have been the point all along.

Dick shrugged and decided that didn’t really matter. The point was, he had gotten much better at controlling his reactions.

“Here, I saved this.” Rose slipped a small bun out of her jacket sleeve and passed it to Dick. He gave her a nod of thanks and ate it hungrily.

Rose giggled and started to pull him down the hall. “Come on, Grant is waiting in the yard.”

Dick let himself be dragged along until they stepped outside and he saw Jeremy making his way towards them. He took the lead then, rushing across the yard with Rose in tow until they found Grant. He was at the far end of the field, in the only blind spot. During Dick’s time in juvie, a new addition had been made to the yard. It didn’t have an official name, and everyone just called it the box. It wasn’t a very stable structure, but held up well enough. If someone caused trouble in the yard before, they were usually escorted back to their cell and remained there for the rest of the day with a constant watch. Now, if you caused trouble, you were tossed in the box until nightfall. The tin walls made for an excellent heat conductor, and it could be unbearable inside. Dick had been thrown in there once when a few of the other kids were picking on him and he tripped one of them. It had been horrible, and he hadn’t caused trouble or defended himself since then.

“Hey, what’s the rush?” Grant asked when he saw them approaching. Dick looked back over his shoulder, towards Jeremy. The older boy was standing in the middle of the yard with his arms crossed, staring after them as if contemplating whether following would be worth it. He apparently decided it would be. Dick swallowed nervously. He knew he could take Jeremy, but he didn’t want to end up in the box again. The guards never seemed to be around when he wasn’t defending himself, but the moment he fought back, someone would appear. He just knew it.

Grant seemed to sense what Dick was thinking.

“Rose, Dad should still be here. I was supposed to meet him soon. Go find him, and tell him that I’m moving forward with his instructions,” Grant said.

“What? What instructions, what are you talking about?” Rose asked.

“Just do it!”

Rose glared at her brother and left in a huff. When she was out of earshot, Grant pulled Dick in close.

“You need to fight back.”

“What?” Dick frowned, then looked at the approaching Jeremy.

“When he fights you, you _have_ to fight back. He won’t stop until you beat him. And you can’t just beat him once, because he’ll come back and fight you again. You have to fight so he’ll never fight you again,” Grant instructed.

Dick started to shake his head, but was stopped as Grant continued speaking.

“This is the blind spot, the guards won’t be able to see you. No one will know besides the three of us, and I’m sure he isn’t going to tell anyone.” Grant stepped away now that Jeremy was close enough to hear them, and nodded firmly towards Dick.

“So what the hell is wrong with you that you get special treatment?” Jeremy snarled as he approached. He shoved Dick’s shoulder, but Dick barely moved. He was far too used to holding his own against one of Grant’s punches.

“I’ve been here two years, and the most I get is half an hour once a week. You’ve been here two months, and they give you a _day_ in one those rooms.” Jeremy shoved him again, and Dick scowled. What did Jeremy know? Dick’s life had gone to hell since the day his family fell. He hated himself because he couldn’t save them, and then Dean killed his friends from Lee’s Laundromat. And now he had to deal with Jeremy every day.

“I bet they just pitied you, right? I’d say someone died, but your family’s all already dead, right?”

With those words Dick’s hesitance completely disappeared. He yelled and jumped forwards, shouldering Jeremy into the wall of the Box. The older boy gasped in surprise, but Dick wasn’t done. Not even close. He elbowed Jeremy in the stomach, and when he doubled over, Dick gripped his hands together and swung down on Jeremy’s back. The bully fell flat on his stomach and Dick kicked him onto his back, dropped onto his chest, and proceeded to rain punches down on his most recent tormentor.

“You!”

_SMACK_

“Don’t get to say!”

_THUD_

“Anything!”

_CRACK_

“About. My. Family!” Each word was accompanied by a punch to the chest or face. Dick could feel Jeremy’s ribs cracking under his knuckles, hear his nose, his collar bone, his jaw break as he just kept hitting him over and over and over again.

Everything that he had been bottling up that day, his sorrow, his anger towards Zucco, towards Kincaid, towards Dean, and himself, he let it flow into his fists. All he could see was red, until suddenly something was holding his fist back, and he twisted to attack whatever it was. But instead of finding a new target a hand appeared on his neck and the next thing Dick knew, he was pressed into the dirt with Grant crouching in front of him, whispering soothing words.

Dick hiccupped and finally realized he was crying. His knuckles were sore and the salt of his tears stung the open cuts when he wiped them away. Grant helped him up, and he looked at Jeremy. He was barely recognizable. His face was puffed up, all bruised and purple, and blood flowed freely from his broken nose, and several splits in his skin along his jaw and temple. His breaths were short and raspy, and Dick almost thought that he could hear gurgling.

“Here.” Grant passed Dick his jacket, and the ebony slipped it on. It was overly large on him, since he was small even for his age, but it covered the bloodstains on his clothes. Dick felt disconnected from himself as Grant guided him towards the bathroom, where the older boy cleaned his torn and bruised knuckles, and disposed of the bloodied shirt. Dick sat in one of the stalls, waiting for Grant to return with clean clothes, and stared down at his knuckles.

He wasn’t quite sure what he felt. He had beaten Jeremy, and now the bully would never bother him again. But in doing so he had actually _beaten_ him into a bloody pulp. Jeremy deserved it, of that Dick had no doubt. He had suffered beatings of his own that totalled to far worse than what Dick had done. He felt safer, knowing that Jeremy wouldn’t hit him again. Not after a humiliation like this.

But that was all he felt. He wasn’t angry, or disappointed, or justified. He wasn’t even happy. He just felt empty and hollow, and Dick knew why.

Jeremy had been his tormentor, but he wasn’t the one that Dick truly wanted to gone. This emptiness would stay as long as Tony Zucco ran free.


	13. Confinement of the Solitary Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 13

**|July 2 nd**

**|3:13 pm**

Dick was jogging between Rose, constantly looking over his shoulders at the guard monitoring them. It had been four days since he beat up Jeremy. It had taken hours before anyone realized something had happened to him. A few of Jeremy’s friends, or goons, found it suspicious that he was absent for dinner that day but hadn’t said anything. In fact, it wasn’t until bunk check that anyone even bothered to look him. Dick had been standing alone in the middle of his cell, staring at Jeremy’s empty bed. When the guard question him, Dick immediately said that he hadn’t seen Jeremy all day. At that point an alarm was pulled, everyone was instructed to get on the ground and stay there.

It had only taken twenty minutes for Jeremy to be found, since he was just outside. After he was the guards performed another bunk check, cells were locked, and lights went out. Dick assumed that Jeremy had been taken to the centre’s medical facilities, and had been there ever since.

Either way, he’d had four blessed days tormentor free. He looked over his shoulder again and saw that there were now two guards standing beside the track, holding a hushed conversation. Dick suddenly wished that Grant was there right now. Before their half-hour of exercise, Grant had once again reminded Dick of the reassuring conversation they had a couple weeks ago, and then left. Dick was sure that older boy would get in trouble for skipping.

“Everything’s fine,” Rose whispered as she caught Dick once again glanced at the guards. He had confided in her about beating up Jeremy a couple days ago, and she had been constantly reassuring him ever since. Dick had wondered why Rose wasn’t horrified at what he’d done. When he asked her, she just said something about the family business.

“Everything’s fine,” Dick repeated, his voice a low murmur. The back of Rose’s hand briefly brushed his before they both spun around and changed direction at two sharp blows of the whistle. Now Dick was running towards the guards he had been watching, and his heart sped up when one of them stepped forwards. The guard was frowning, watching Dick as he ran passed. For a moment it looked like the guard would do nothing, and Dick was sighing with relief as he was able to turn his back on them.

“Grayson!”

Dick sucked in a sharp breath and slowed, veering off the track and back towards the guards. Rose, in the middle of the crowd, had faltered, but continued running when a few of the kids passing her started to shove.

“Yes?” Dick’s fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to sign while he spoke.

“You’re coming with me.” Dick flinched when the guard tightly gripped his shoulder. On instinct, Dick twisted and ducked out of the hold, which earned him a light cuff to the ear. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt him, but to put him in his place. This time Dick simply flinched when the hand fell on his shoulder again. He let himself be guided through the halls, not recognizing the route.

“Where are you taking me?” Dick asked, looking warily up at the guard.

He didn’t answer.

They turned down a short hallway that lead to a dead end. Lining the walls at even intervals were heavy metal doors with two slots in them. A bigger one that was about eye level for the guards, and a short, wide one lower down. Dick glanced at the guard again when he was roughly pulled up beside one of the doors. The guard pulled out a ring of keys, opened the door, and shoved Dick inside.

“Hey, why am I—” His question was cut off by the slamming of the door. Dick stood in the middle of the room, staring at the slab of metal, then looked around. The space was small, maybe five or six paces from wall to wall. A small, uncomfortable looking cot was against the back wall, and a toilet in one corner. There was a vent near the ceiling, too small for him to climb through, that carried in stale air.

Dick was confused, alone, and scared. He curled up on the cot, pulled his knees on close and hiding his face in his arms.

He wanted Grant, or Rose. He wanted Zitka. He wanted Wilson. He wanted his family back.

He wanted to go back to the circus, to go _home_.

He wanted anything other than this.

...

**|July 3 rd**

**|Time unknown**

Dick had woken up some time ago. He wasn’t really sure how long, the room he was in didn’t have a clock. But he had discovered the purpose of the bottom slot. A tray of breakfast had been pushed through it. The bread was dry, and the oatmeal lumpy. But that was normal. He was bored out of his mind and had spent the last little while walking around on his hands, just for something to do.

A knock on the door surprised him, and his palm slipped against the smooth tiles. He tumbled down, curling into a ball to minimize injury, but was able to avoid hitting his head against the cold floor. Dick groaned and rubbed his forehead as the door opened. He scrambled back as Doc stepped inside, and the door closed again. Dick remained silent and sitting on the floor, while Doc sat down on the bed. They stared at each other, neither one willing to break eye contact.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Doc asked.

Dick shook his head. He had his suspicions, obviously, and they were bound to be right. But no one had told him anything, and he was hoping that he was wrong.

“Jeremy is… was severely injured after what you did to him,” Doc said. The little acrobat froze. They knew. Jeremy had told them, and now he would never get to leave.

“The punishment for what you did is solitary confinement. They didn’t tell me for how long, but when you get out, you’ll be moved up to cell block A, since you’ve been deemed too dangerous.”

Dick listened numbly as Doc explained. He shouldn’t have listened to Grant, shouldn’t have attacked Jeremy. But he had been so angry, and hurt, and scared. Grant had made him think of Wilson, and Wilson made him feel safe.

“Technically you aren’t an inmate here, and with no formal charges pressed, they haven’t officially made you one. This means there won’t be an official record, but an unofficial one can still be created. I can have it sealed.”

Dick stopped listening at that point. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t an inmate, he was still there. Still locked away. Doc stayed a few minutes longer, explaining some things. But Dick didn’t hear any of it. He nodded every once in a while, making it look like he was paying attention. When Doc finally left, he remained seated on the floor and staring at the wall.

**...**

**|July 14 th**

**|Time unknown**

Twelve days, just two days shy of two weeks. Dick hadn’t left solitary confinement yet, and the only visitors he got were the guards bringing him food, and picking up his empty trays. They never said anything to him, and he never said anything to them. Dick had taken to practicing the other languages he knew, since it didn’t matter if no one understood him, and it had been a while since he’d spoken anything other than English. His German needed a lot of work, since he had only just been learning it before his parents died. His Italian was better, and it helped that he already knew Spanish and French. There were still lots of words he forgot in both languages, but he was mildly confident in his accents. He had only spoken Romani once, in an interesting one sided conversation with his deceased grandmother. He told her about everything that had happened since she died. He got no answer.

Mostly, though, he spoke Romanian. Any lullabies he could remember, or just talking to his walls, saying his thoughts out loud, which were always Romanian anyways.

He knew that was a bad habit. How was he supposed to improve his other languages when he didn’t try and think in them? But Romanian was reflexive, instinctual. If languages could be instinctual.

If he wasn’t talking, he was working. The guards hadn’t searched him before throwing him into the cell, so he still had the strange device Wilson had given him. Dick was toying with the wires, untwisting and twisting the ones that were stripped. Connecting orange with blue, and green with yellow, and red with black until there were no more loose wires. He had no idea if that helped or hindered the device. Dick was turning the face on the front, listening to the soft clicks as it went around.

A louder click, more like a soft thud, drew his attention to the door. Dick shoved the device back into his back and stood up. He’d already had lunch, and he was pretty sure it was too soon for dinner.

“Sunt eu drumul?” [ _Am I being let out?_ ] Dick asked the guard.

“Speak English, kid,” the guard grunted. “You have half an hour out of your cell. Don’t know why, though. I don’t think they should ever let you out.”

Dick stared at the guard in confusion. They were letting him out, but he would be going right back. What was the point of that? Solitary confinement was hardly solitary if they let him walk around the detention centre. He left the cell and looked down the hall. A small hand was waving at him from around the corner.

Of course, Wilson had arranged it. Dick wasn’t sure what kind of pull the man had, but he had it. Dick expected the guard to follow him and was mildly surprised when she didn’t. He sped up and raced around the corner to see Rose.

“We don’t have long, so hurry.”

Dick nodded and followed Rose closely. A few of the kids they passed stared after them, one or two of them even looking a little scared, although Dick wasn’t sure why. They entered the stairwell and went down. They passed through the laundry room, empty at this time, and went to a back room. It was damp and humid, with various pipes traveling along the ceiling and disappearing into the floor or walls. Grant was there waiting for them.

“Something related to Zucco came up,” Grant said, silencing any thoughts that Dick had. “Some dirty cop was captured by Batman. It’s not enough to condemn Zucco, but it’s something. Wilson wanted me to tell you.”

“And?” Dick asked. It was a lead, and that made him ecstatic, but that couldn’t be the only reason he had been dragged down here.

“You still remember what I said before?” Grant asked.

Dick paused, taking a moment, then nodded slowly. This was the third time Grant had reminded him of the moment.

“Good. Just, keep that in mind, okay?” Grant sounded nervous, and worried. The ebony nodded again, waiting for the older boy to continue.

“Jeremy wasn’t the one who told the guards, he couldn’t have. I told them.”

Dick froze, his mind seemed to have halted. It felt like forever before he had processed what Grant said. Jeremy hadn’t ratted on him, Grant had betrayed him. Jeremy hadn’t sought revenge, _Grant_ , who called him a brother, _betrayed him_.

He stared at Grant in shock, his mouth agape. Beside him Rose had started to yell and scold her brother for his actions. But Dick was hardly paying attention. He could only think of one thing.

"M-ai tradat." [ _You betrayed me_ ] His accent was thick and his voice quiet. Neither sibling heard him. Rose continued to yell, and Grant just stood there looking almost bored. Grant was the one who said he would be there for Dick, help him when he needed it and always have his back. So much for that. In recent months, Dick had been in a few situations that caused his temper to flare dangerously. There had been two opportunities for him to let it out. First against Dean, and again with Jeremy. Both times they had been his tormentors and had gotten what they deserved. Now Grant was the reason Dick was in solitary confinement, a truly mind numbing experience. He was the reason Dick would be going to cell block A. He was the reason Dick would probably never get to leave. Grant may not have tormented Dick directly, but any future pain would be his fault. So it was only natural for Dick to get revenge while he still had the chance.

A feral cry was torn from Dick’s lips and he jumped forwards. His hands were closing around Grant’s shirt when everything went black.

...

**|Date unknown**

**|Time unknown**

“He’s coming for you.”

...

**|July 15 th**

**|7:56 am**

The stench of vomit roused him. Dick managed to open his eyes once, just long enough to glimpse the clack on the far wall, and realize that he was lying in the middle of the laundry room, before something akin to sleep claimed him. He was aware of the fact that he was still awake, but he didn’t want to be. The sounds around him were distant, almost like they were far away. He heard footsteps, shouting.

“… found…”

“… back… cell.”

The voices sounded warbled, as if he was listening through water. He was aware of someone picking him up, none too gently. The next thing he knew, he was staring at the ceiling of his solitary confinement cell. His hand was throbbing, there was a lingering taste in his mouth, and he felt queasy.

Worst of all, Dick couldn’t remember what happened. He had been about to attack Grant, and then he waking up in the laundry room. If his hand hurt, did that mean he punched Grant? Had his rage caused him to black out?

Dick groaned and rolled onto his stomach, pressing his cheek into his cool pillow. He couldn’t think of any proper explanation. Blacking out didn’t explain how he ended up where he did. And judging by the time, it was no longer the fourteenth. That made even less sense. If he had been in the laundry room the whole time, he would have been found a lot sooner. They would have looked for him after his half an hour was up.

He didn’t want to think about it right now. It was confusing, his head hurt, and he just wanted to sleep. So he did.

...

**|July 18 th**

**|Time unknown**

Dick was ninety-three percent certain that it had been three days since Grant revealed his betrayal, and he had blacked out. He had spent most of that time sleeping, since he was still feeling sick. He hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t spoken to anyone. Not that it mattered anyways. Even if he were feeling fine, he would have nothing else to do. The device was gone, supposedly taken the guards. Oddly enough Dick still had his knife, but he didn’t care why. As long as he still had it.

He relied on his meals as a way to tell time, since they never shut off the lights in solitary. At least they hadn’t as long as he’d been there. Dick didn’t actually _eat_ the meals they brought, except for maybe a nibble of bread here, or a sip of water there. Since most of his meals went untouched, he realized that he could have counted them wrong. Any time spent awake was done in a daze and Dick never really bothered to look to hard at what had been brought to him. There was a chance that he could have fallen asleep once or twice, only to wake up a few minutes later and assume he had been out for hours.

But three days seemed about right.

Dick hadn’t heard anything about or from either Grant or Rose, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He wasn’t mad at Rose, she wasn’t the one who _betrayed_ _him_. But what if she was going to? Dick hadn’t known much about the siblings, but considered himself close to them, especially to Rose. Grant had even gone so far as to call him brother, and then he destroyed everything. If Grant, who claimed to always watch out for Dick, could do something so cruel, what was stopping Rose? What was stopping anyone?

There really wasn’t a reason to trust anyone anymore.

He pulled his stiff, scratchy blanket up to his ears, intent on returning to sleep. He was in that space between being awake and asleep, the one where you feel disconnected from everything, but are hyperaware of everything you are touching, hearing, and smelling. He was about to tip over the edge into blissful darkness when the door to his cell swung open. Dick hadn’t heard a knock, at least he didn’t think so. But now that he thought about it, that’s probably what that dull thudding a few moments ago was. He had just assumed it was his headache coming back.

Sitting up slowly, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked at the guard standing in the doorway. It was never the same guard. Every time his door opened, or a tray of food was shoved through the slot, it was always a different guard. A different hand.

Dick didn’t say anything, because he didn’t see a reason to. After a few moments of almost awkward silence, the guard spoke.

“Hurry up, it’s time to go.”

Dick nodded and slid from the cot. He hung his head as they walked through the halls. This was it, he was finally going to cell block A. Not that he wasn’t happy to finally leave solitary. Maybe he could find out what happened to Jeremy. Maybe Grant and Rose.

Dick had been under the impression that the four cell blocks met at an intersection of two hallways near the middle of the detention centre. So he was a little more than confused when they didn’t head towards said intersection. Instead they went past the visitors’ area and to the small room between the main entrance of the detention centre, and the rest of the facility. Dick was instructed to stop and the guard searched him. The guard’s hands hesitated when they roved over the knife stuck into Dick’s sock.

The ebony haired boy sucked in a sharp breath, waiting for the guard to remove the knife and confiscate it. Instead, he stood up, nodded, and led Dick out of the room. He could see windows— _windows_ —and the sky. It was cloudy out, so he couldn’t tell what time of day it was. Presumably the afternoon, since was almost positive someone had already dropped of lunch that day. Which he hadn’t touched. Standing next to the front desk of the detention centre was a familiar looking man.

Neatly trimmed mustache, darker than the rest of his grey and receding hair. Military air and freshly pressed suit. It was the butler—Dick still wasn’t sure of the exact definition for that word, but had his suspicions—Alfred Pennyworth.

Dick recognized the second man, who had been talking with the receptionist, just as quickly. Bruce Wayne. Dick took a moment to consider the younger of the two men. Mr. Wayne still seemed dangerous.

“ _Spune-mi_ , why are you here?” [ _Tell me_ ] Dick asked, watching them both cautiously.

“No one told you?” Bruce asked in return.

 _Obviously not_.

“ _Nu_.” Dick has the sudden childish impulse to run back to his cell, no matter how much he hated it. He had only met Mr.’s Wayne and Pennyworth once before. At the time, Mr. Wayne had so kindly pointed out that he was a random stranger. There was no reason for him to be here now.

“Oh, dear. We were informed that you were aware of the situation,” Mr. Pennyworth said, casting Mr. Wayne a worried glance.

Mr. Wayne gave what he probably assumed was a kind smile. It wasn’t bad, but Dick could tell the man didn’t have practice dealing with children. “I’m here to take you away from this place. I’m adopting you.”


	14. Welcome to Wanye Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 14

**|June 18 th**

**|10:17 am**

Dick hadn’t said anything for three minutes. To him, it wasn’t really that big of a deal. He hadn’t found speaking to be very necessary in recent weeks and silence had become his natural state. Mr. Wayne and Pennyworth were obviously expecting some kind of response. Dick just didn’t know what to say.

It wasn’t for any emotional reason, like he was so overjoyed, or he thought he was dreaming and that if he spoke it would shatter the illusion. Dick didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know what Bruce had said. Chase had taught him a fair amount of English, and Rose had worked hard to try and round out his vocabulary some. But the word ‘adopting’ wasn’t one commonly used in casual conversation. Dick knew Bruce was taking him away from the detention centre, he understood that easily. But he couldn’t determine if ‘adopting’ was good or bad.

They were standing away from the front desk, the two grown men giving him worried looks, while the guard had left not two minutes ago, and the receptionist completely ignored them.

Dick recalled, rather belatedly, that it was normally customary for someone to reply right away when they’ve been spoken to.

“ _Ce_ … What is ‘adopting’?” [ _What_ ] Dick asked. He was a little fearful at what the answer would be. ‘Adopting’ might be even worse than going to cell block A, or solitary confinement. No one had told him anything, so it must not be good.

“I suppose that isn’t actually the best word to use,” Mr. Wayne said. Dick didn’t miss the way Mr. Pennyworth gave the younger man an almost disapproving glare. “As of today, you’re my ward. You’re coming to live with me, if you want to.”

Dick’s eyes widened. He would be living with Mr. Wayne? The man hadn’t actually answered Dick’s question, but the ebony now knew what he meant. It happened at the circus sometimes. Dick used to hear how normal people joked about running away and joining the circus. What they didn’t realize is that it actually happens sometimes. A couple of the Performers at Haly’s had come from poor living circumstances and joined the troupe when it came through their hometowns. Those born into the circus always joked that they were adopted performers. Dick had never actually heard the phrase spoken in English, but was familiar with it in a variety of other languages. He finally had the English translation.

“It’s like foster care,” Mr. Wayne elaborated, and with those four words Dick immediately shut down. His eyes narrowed in distrust and he took a step away from the two men. Dean had provided him with a foster home, and Dick doubted he would ever forget what happened there. Foster care was bad and he wanted nothing to do with it. He’d take cell block A over going back to _that_.

The two men seemed to realize that Mr. Wayne had said something wrong. Wayne himself seemed to stiff, shifting into a stance that Dick recognized as defensive. What Dick himself didn’t realize, is that his own expression had melted into one found on criminals torn between fleeing or attacking. Because of Dick’s training, he was leaning towards the latter.

It was Pennyworth who stepped forwards to defuse the situation. He crouched in front of Dick, moving in a way that made the little acrobat consider the man frail. He supposed that was an intentional move, but it was still effective. Dick relaxed slightly, telling himself that an old man, no matter what military air he had, would be able to beat a boy that had recently received mercenary style training.

“Master Richard,” Pennyworth started, and Dick immediately frowned. Pennyworth was in no way his apprentice, so why did he call Dick that?

“I can assure you that coming to live in the manor is a good thing. We have no ill intentions, and Master Bruce only wishes to provide you with proper home.”

 _Like the one you lost_ went unsaid, but Dick could practically hear the words echoing through the silence that followed Pennyworth’s statement. Pennyworth sounded genuine, but Dick had understandably negative feelings towards foster care.

“I will be fostered?” Dick asked, searching for clarification. He didn’t trust them, especially not with how dangerous Wayne looked right now, but they could be his only chance out of the detention centre.

“You will by Master Bruce’s ward, and he will be your guardian,” Pennyworth explained. “A foster home is normally a temporary situation. This will not be.”

Dick cast his gaze down to his feet. Ward and guardian, not fostering, and long term as well. He had his misgivings about Wayne and Pennyworth, and he felt like they must have had some kind of ulterior motive. But Wilson hadn’t contacted him again, and Dick wanted to continue his search for Zucco. He looked at Wayne and nodded.

“Okay.”

Wayne didn’t exactly, but he looked almost pleased. Pennyworth wore a dignified grin as he stood up straight again.

“Let us just get your things, and then we’ll head home.”

...

**|11:03 am**

They had reached the Gotham’s outer edge and entered an area called the Palisades, if the sign Dick noticed was correct. Wayne and Pennyworth had been surprised to learn that Dick didn’t have any belongings to take away from the detention centre, besides the clothes that he was wearing when he arrived, and he didn’t bother explaining to them why that was. Wilson had all of his things somewhere.

Dick was dismayed at the fact that he might never see those items again. Zitka, the photos, his father’s watch, his mother’s necklace, and their wedding rings. He realized that he’d never damaged the personal items. It had been a while since he thought about Romani customs, but wondered if angry spirits had already attached themselves to the items, now that they weren’t damaged or properly sold. He remembered his nightmare—one of many—when his family had pushed him off the trapeze platform, and visibly shuddered.

The car ride had been spent in almost complete silence. Wayne had tried to start a conversation, and even Pennyworth contributed the odd word in the hopes of spurring Dick on, but the boy’s lips remained shut. He didn’t see the point of casual conversation with people he didn’t trust. He focused his attention on the houses outside. They were utterly massive, and he couldn’t believe that each one belonged to just a single family. They stopped briefly at the end of a gated drive, and while waiting for the gate to open, Dick caught his first glimpse of Wayne Manor.

It was by far the biggest house he had seen so far, and the estate itself was massive. There was a double staircase leading up to the main entrance, and an elaborate fountain sat on the grass between them. At the two front corners, and framing the entrance were what Dick could most easily describe as castle towers. They were square, made of the same grey stone as the rest of the visible exterior, and each one topped with a parapet. Judging by the number of windows, there were three stories, plus attics and upper balconies in the gables.

It was an imposing building, looming before them, and the archway above the door reminded Dick of a gaping may waiting to swallow them whole. The clouded sky did little to lessen the manor’s foreboding appearance. Pennyworth pulled the car up below one of the stairways. Dick didn’t wait for the elderly man to open his door, and instead clambered out before the vehicle had even stopped.

He stood on the drive, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could, just like Wilson taught him. The manor, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes, the smaller lane off the driveway that appeared to circle around to the back of the house, and the numerous plants on the estate. Dick would have to give the rest of the estate a thorough look over later. He didn’t intend to stay with Wayne long. He was still confident that Wilson would attempt to reach out to him again. Even though Grant’s betrayal was like a stab to the heart, Dick hadn’t lost faith in the older boy’s father. Wilson had been his saviour, something not easily forgotten.

“What do you think?”

Dick nearly jumped at the sudden closeness of Wayne’s voice. He hadn’t even noticed the man moving towards him. Not an easy thing to do on loose gravel. This meant Wayne had either done it intentionally, or it was so habitual he didn’t even realize he’d done it. Both answers were troubling to the little acrobat.

“It’s big,” Dick shrugged. He didn’t trust either man enough to tell them how ecstatic he was to be out of juvenile detention and living in a real house, or how impressive he really thought the house was. “You are rich?”

“To put it lightly,” Alfred said, smirking from his spot on the stairs. Dick nodded and started inside. He recognized the name Bruce Wayne the second he heard it, but hadn’t been able to place the man. If he was rich, he was probably famous. However, while living with the circus, media had never been an influential part of his life.

The inside of the manor was just as grand, and a little less gothic. A single staircase crawled up the right wall of the foyer, and the hallways leading out had arched entrances. The chandelier above Dick’s head was massive and he found himself wondering, with a sort of morbid curiosity, what would happen if it fell.

Wayne apparently had to go to work, where he was actually supposed to be at that moment, and returned to the city while Pennyworth gave Dick a tour. He showed him the kitchen, the family and guest dining room, and the living room. Pennyworth gestured down a hallway that led to Wayne’s rooms and study, then guided Dick to his own bedroom. It was on the second floor, near the center of the building. The walls were a dark blue, and the bedding was plain and gray. Dick was assured that they would go shopping soon for anything he required, lunch would be at precisely twelve, and he was free to roam the rest of the manor until then.

Once he was alone, Dick sat on his new bed and stared around the room. There was a desk, a wardrobe, and a dresser, along with a nightstand just beside him. He expected the wardrobe and dresser to be empty, and was surprised when he opened both to find clothes already inside. And not just any clothes, but _his_ clothes. Not the items he had taken to Dean’s, Wilson was still in possession of those, but everything he had left behind at the circus. Including the uniform his mother had made for their final performance.

Dick didn’t know how Wayne had acquired these items, and at the moment he didn’t care. He slipped the uniform from its hanger and draped it across the bed. The blood was gone, and it looked brand new. The ebony had been reluctant to wear the uniform at the time, but it was a family tradition. For each Grayson’s quadruple flip debut, they were given an outfit that would make them stand out. Dick had been worried that he would stand out _too_ much, and he had never told his mother how much he really like the outfit.

Dick found felt his resolve crumble and he collapsed onto the bed, pressing his face into the red vest and crying himself to exhaustion.

...

**|12:32 pm**

Dick awoke to a light knock on his door. The red vest was still pressed against his face, and his cheek probably had red creases from the folds in the fabric. He didn’t really care. He stumbled to the door and opened it to see Alfred standing just outside.

“I’m sorry to disturb you Master Richard, as when I last checked it looked as if you needed the extra sleep. But your lunch is getting cold, and I wouldn’t want you to miss a meal,” Alfred said kindly.

Dick just nodded, suddenly very conscious of his red eyes, and rubbed at the tear tracks on his face. Alfred led him back to the family dining room, which had a smaller more intimate table. There were two plates, and Dick realized that Alfred had been waiting for him before he himself ate. Despite his lack of trust, he felt a stab of guilt. Dick wasn’t too hungry, but sat down and started picking at the food before him anyways.

“Why do you call me master?” Dick asked as he slid the prongs of his fork into a tender piece of chicken.

Pennyworth almost looked surprised by the question. “Because I am the butler of this household, and it is the respectful term used to refer to those I work for.”

“And what… does ‘butler’ mean?” Dick’s questions were hesitant. He didn’t want to reveal his lack of English language skills as a weakness, but got the feeling that Pennyworth wouldn’t take advantage of that.

“A butler is the main male servant in the home of a normally wealthy family. I have worked with the Wayne family for two generations now and practically raised Bruce myself,” Pennyworth explained.

Dick nodded slowly before asking one more question. “Mr. Pennyworth, does that mean you fostered or adopted Mr. Wayne?”

“Please, Master Richard. Alfred and Bruce are just fine, there is no need to be so formal.” Dick would have laughed, if he really felt like laughing. That statement was ironic coming from the aged butler. “I became Bruce’s legal guardian after his parents passed, and he is very much like a surrogate son to me. As you would be like a grandson.”

Dick stiffened, blue eyes locked onto his plate, and feeling rather lost. This man didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about him. But he was ready to call Dick his grandson. It made the ebony uncomfortable with the situation.

Alfred seemed to sense this, and abruptly changed the topic. “Is the food to your liking?”

Dick’s appetite had lessened during his time in solitary, due to the small meal portions, and as a result he hadn’t eaten much yet. The few bites Dick _had_ taken were delicious, and he told Alfred as much. He didn’t quite trust the gentleman yet, he had only known him for a few hours after all. But there was just something about the balding man that made it hard to _dis_ trust him. All that aside, Dick’s parents had raised him to be polite.

He didn’t miss the way Alfred smiled when Dick habitually moved to clean up the dishes himself.

...

**|June 21 st**

**|4:51 pm**

Three days at the manor. They had yet to go on the promised trip to buy new things for Dick, but he wasn’t worried about that. He was more concerned with what to think of the man that had taken him in. He had seen very little of Wayne. The billionaire would head to work early in the morning, and retreat into his study whenever he arrived home. Which should be right about now.

Dick was crouched at the top of the staircase when the front door opened. Bruce looked to be more in a hurry than usual. Dick had taken to observing and getting to know his surroundings during the past three days. The manor was massive, and he was still unfamiliar with much of it, so memorizing its layout would take some time.

Learning Bruce and Alfred’s schedules had been fairly simple. Alfred typically spent the day tidying up around the manor. Dick had witnessed a few other staff members, but they were only present for a very short portion of the day after lunch. Alfred did almost everything himself. He would start making dinner sometime around four thirty, so it would almost be ready by the time Bruce arrived at five. By six the dining room would be set, and dinner would be served. Bruce would customarily lose himself in some form of office work he had brought home. That’s at least what it looked like.

After dinner, Bruce would retire to his study. Dick noticed that, around nine o’clock each night, the sounds of shuffling papers and scratching pens normally silenced. He wouldn’t see Bruce again until morning, if he woke up early enough.

Dick only had two and a half days’ worth of observation, but Bruce seemed like the kind of man who stuck to a schedule. So it was odd to see him in such a rush. The dangerous feeling Dick got from Bruce seemed to have tripled, and he didn’t even notice the young boy watching from the top of the stairs.

“Alfred!” Bruce called as he removed his jacket. The butler entered the foyer not a minute later.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ll be eating in _the study_ tonight. There’s been a development,” Bruce said.

“Of course, sir.” Alfred nodded.

Without another word, Bruce towards the stairs. Dick scrambled back and ducked into the closest room as Bruce passed. His eyes followed the man all the way down the hall, until he disappeared from view. The exchange itself wasn’t all too strange. Dick now knew that Bruce was the CEO of a billion dollar company that dealt in all sorts of things, including charities, technology development, medical advancement and more. The ‘development’ Bruce mentioned could have easily been in reference to some kind of business contract.

But Dick had a feeling that wasn’t right. It was strange, the way that Bruce emphasized the study. Dick waited a few minutes, devising the perfect excuse for why he might be barging into the study, then knocked on the door.

He received no answer.

Dick frowned and knocked again. When nothing happened, he tested the handle. It was unlocked. He opened the door to find the study empty. Dick could have sworn that he saw Bruce enter this door, but maybe he had been wrong. He looked to the next door over. It was too far down the hall for him to have made a mistake. He checked it anyways, and found an empty bedroom. He stared around the room with a calculating gaze, before his eyes drifted to the wall right next to the door. But that couldn’t have been right.

He backed up and returned to the study, standing with one foot in the room, and the other in the hallway. Dick looked from the far wall of the study, to the door down the hall. The depth seemed off. He entered the study and started probing the wall. It was a book shelf, nothing suspicious about that. It was a little ridiculous, but he started to pull the books from the shelves. From what little he knew of cartoons, and that was very little at this point in his life, bookshelves sometimes hid secret passages that could be opened by pulling a certain book. He went for the most obvious ones. Large tomes, or covers that stood out against the rest. But nothing happened.

Dick scowled and stepped back, bumping into a pedestal. He whirled around, slapping his hands on either side of it to keep it steady. Although there hadn’t been any danger in the first place. The pedestal stood firm, and the bust on top of it hadn’t moved and inch. Dick stared at the marble face, and read the plaque on its base.

_Alan Wayne_

One of Bruce’s ancestors then. He prodded the bust, never actually having seen one before in person. The marble was cold and smooth, and the carving itself was very detailed. There were kind wrinkles around the man’s eyes, and it even almost looked like there was seem where the neck met the collar of the carved shirt.

Very detailed.

A loud noise by the window drew Dick’s attention away from the ghostly face. It had been a dull thud, almost like the sound of someone being punched. He shook his head and focused on Bruce’s desk. It was expensive by the looks of it, and there were several files sitting on top, along with a laptop. A smile stretched its way across Dick’s face and he pulled his hands away from the bust, moving instead to sit in the leather chair.

He had been worried about how he would resume his research on Zucco, but he’d just found his answer.


	15. Call Me Dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 15

**|June 22 nd**

**|7:59 am**

Out of habit, Dick had woken up early. At least he assumed it was habit. Two and a half weeks of solitary confinement in constant light usually messed with your internal clock. Maybe it was luck, especially since he had stayed up in the early morning on Bruce’s computer. He wasn’t worried about being caught, since he somehow knew that Bruce was out of the manor, even if he had watched the billionaire come back.

Dick had limited experience with computers, but Chase had boasted that hers was fairly good, despite living on the street. Bruce’s, however, was even better. Dick also learned that there was a lot he still didn’t know about computers. Chase had taught him well, but their time together had been limited. There was still more to learn. The little acrobat didn’t want to delay his search for Zucco, but he had to learn more.

He downloaded and printed off a file on coding and hacking. Just so that he wouldn’t fall behind in his research as well, he also printed a few articles about Zucco. He hadn’t read any of it yet, but had a hefty stack of papers sitting on his lap as he ate breakfast, eyes darting from his plate to the page between bites.

Nibbling on his toast, Dick thumbed through the pages until he reached the start of an article. If he was reading the date on top correctly, it was recent. He pulled it to the top of the stack. Dick couldn’t think of any reason why there would be an article on the mobster. The police were incompetent and didn’t know anything. That, or they were criminals themselves.

Dick’s eyes widened as he remembered what Grant had told him before the betrayal. A dirty cop, someone working for Zucco. Dick couldn’t remember the man’s face, but he immediately recalled the police officer from when he was arrested. The cop that had called Zucco boss. He grinned.

The police were still idiots, but at least this meant they weren’t totally useless. Although he would have liked to get the cop himself. Dick continued to read the article, picking at his breakfast. He was about halfway through when a sharp knock made him look up. Dick narrowed his eyes at the window, where the sound had come from. Bruce had already left for work, there was some big meeting today, and Alfred was somewhere else in the manor at the moment. The other staff wouldn’t be arriving until ten or so, meaning there was no reason for anyone to be outside.

Dick abandoned his food, holding the stack of papers under his arm, and dragged a chair over to the window. He climbed on top and peered outside. He couldn’t see anything out of place. There weren’t any trees near the window, so it couldn’t have been a branch in the wind. Not to mention it didn’t look windy either. He glanced down at the bushes, with nowhere else to look. Rose bushes. Among the pink flowers, a spot of yellow caught his eyes. Dick scowled, immediately suspicious, and pressed himself against the glass in an attempt to see more.

It didn’t really work, but Dick was still a child and was allowed to think like one, even if he didn’t very often. Suddenly the yellow was gone, replaced by a bright green iris. Dick’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

“Master Richard?”

In one fluid movement Dick spun around, shoving the papers behind his back and sliding down to sit properly in the chair.

“Yes, Alfred?” Dick asked innocently.

“Might I ask what you were doing?”

“Nothing.”

One of Alfred’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say anything. He walked to the table and glanced at Dick’s plate. About the half the food was gone, but a lot still remained.

“I suppose you’re finished with your meal.” Alfred picked up the plate at Dick’s nod and took it to the kitchen. Dick gave the window one last look before moving his chair back to the table. He was about to head back to his room, hoping to read over the articles and file more, but was interrupted by Alfred.

“Master Richard, would you be interested in shopping today? Master Bruce may have been able to acquire some of your things from the circus, but seeing as you no longer have the items you brought with you when you leave, I think it’s time we replace them.”

Replace them.

Dick thought of Zitka, the photos, the watch, the necklace. The rings. They couldn’t be replaced.

“Um, sure.” Dick nodded slowly.

“I’m afraid Master Bruce won’t be joining us. He is meeting with some… business associates today,” Alfred said.

“That’s fine.” Dick preferred it that way. He didn’t trust either man, but he could tolerate pretending to trust Alfred. Bruce, though. There was something about that man that Dick really didn’t like. “I’ll get ready.”

Dick made his way to the staircase closest to the kitchen. He took the long way around the manor getting to his room, testing his memory. He made a few wrong turns, but it didn’t take too long. Standing in the middle of his room, papers now deposited safely in his desk, Dick realized he didn’t know what to do to get ready. He was already dressed, and it was too warm out for a jacket. He turned to his mirror and stared at his reflection.

Despite being out of juvie for four days, he hadn’t really taken a chance to look at himself yet. Little glimpses, but nothing else. He took that chance now. Any bruises he had gotten were gone. There was barely any evidence of what he had been through since that fateful day. A few scars on his arms, from Dean’s cigarettes, and still healing red lines from shattered beer bottles. But those could be covered, and there was a good chance that the scars would fade to near completion. He was less confident about the one on his face. The cut was along his cheek bone, beneath his right eye. Dean’s ring had cut in deep, and the scar would probably be there forever. Dick gently brushed the mark with his thumb. He only turned away from the mirror when Alfred’s voice echoed down the hallway.

“Coming,” Dick called back. He met Alfred in the foyer, and climbed into the backseat of the car out front. Dick was scanning the streets for the entirety of the drive, catching glimpses of street names and taking note of recognizable buildings. The most recognizable one being Wayne Tower, the main headquarters for Wayne Industries. It had a unique architectural style, and was the tallest building in Gotham. Dick knew that there was another Wayne Industries building somewhere in the city, dedicated to the technological department. It was one of the industry’s biggest branches, if Dick’s previous research was correct.

He would have to do more tonight. He really didn’t like not knowing things about Bruce.

Alfred drove them to a mall, and Dick almost felt like laughing. Looking at the prim and proper gentleman sitting in the front seat, he couldn’t imagine the butler ever setting foot in a mall. He was apparently going to be proven wrong.

Dick was well aware of the stares being sent his, or Alfred’s, way. They were expected. Bruce Wayne was famous, and it didn’t surprise Dick that his butler was probably well known also. Considering their confusion at seeing Dick walking with the older man, it wasn’t that far of a leap to figure out his existence, and his recent occupation of Wayne Manor wasn’t known to the public.

It had been a long time since Dick went shopping, since his family could only afford to do it when necessary. Alfred took him to a few clothing stores, where Dick was urged to pick out whatever he wanted. Unused to such treatment, he picked minimally. Dick insisted that he didn’t need anything for his room. It was true, but that wasn’t the only reason he said so. Dick didn’t want to owe Bruce Wayne so much when he eventually left his care, because their separation was inevitable.

“Then I must insist, Master Richard, that you at least get one thing that isn’t clothing for your entertainment,” Alfred said.

Dick frowned and gave in. “Books.”

A smile spread across Alfred’s face and, after purchasing the clothes, they headed to the bookstore. Dick didn’t head to the children’s section, like Alfred had probably been expecting. He immediately sought out a book on computers. It was highly likely that there was a lot he wouldn’t understand, seeing as Dick was still considerably new to English. The reading itself wasn’t really a problem. Dick may have been young, but his dad always called him a genius for a reason.

“This is the one you want?” Alfred asked, staring at the book that Dick was holding up.

“Yes.” Dick nodded. Alfred looked skeptical, but went to purchase the book. Dick was just a step behind him when something caught his attention. A flash of yellow, just like the one he’d seen among the roses. He didn’t hesitate to chase after it. He ran down an empty aisle, rounding the corner and stopping abruptly when he collided with a taller boy.

“Ow!”

Dick scowled while the boy gasped, and stared at his t-shirt. It was yellow.

“Hey, sorry kid,” the bigger boy said as he stood. He held out a hand, but Dick ignored it. Dismayed that he had apparently just seen this boy’s shirt, he stood up and rubbed his forehead.

“You’re a kid too,” Dick mumbled.

“Yeah, but I’m a bigger kid, so I get to call you kid. But my aunt’s boyfriend calls me kid all the time.”

“I don’t really care,” Dick said, glaring at the other boy.

“You talk good for a fiver,” the boy observed.

“Fiver?”

“Five years old.”

Dick’s glare intensified. He may have been small for his age, but he wasn’t _that_ small. “I’m _seven_. _Not_ five. And I’m pro’lly smarter than you.”

“Nuh-uh. I’m _super_ smart. My mom says so. I’m smart enough to know what hero is better.”

Dick’s glare dissolved into a look of confusion, and the boy pointed to his shoes. Dick glanced down at the sneakers that Chase had given him, then back up. The boy tapped a pair of small sunglasses sitting on his rusty red hair. They were bright red, and there was a little yellow lightning bolt in a white circle on each side.

“The Flash is the best hero ever.”

“Master Richard? There you are.”

Dick looked over his shoulder to see Alfred walking down the aisle, recently purchased book in hand.

“I would be much happier if you didn’t wander off like that,” Alfred said, his tone lightly scolding.

“Sorry, Alfred,” Dick responded automatically. He turned away from the boy and started to follow Alfred, just barely catching a woman’s voice before he was out of earshot.

“Come on, Wally. The meeting’s done.”

“Is there anywhere else you would like to go?” Alfred asked, drawing Dick’s attention.

“No. I don’t need anything.” Dick shook his head.

“I’m afraid that isn’t what I asked,” Alfred said, a slight smile on his lips. “I’m well aware that we have what you need. But is there anything you _want_?”

Zitka, his belongings, the circus, his _family_.

“Ice cream?” Dick offered. He knew that Alfred wouldn’t let up until he gave a decent answer. Hopefully ice cream was childish enough that it would suffice.

Alfred looked at his watch, and Dick glimpsed that it was almost ten. “It’s a little early, but I suppose you deserve a treat.”

“Why?”

“I don’t believe they give you ice cream in juvenile detention. If it’s what you want, I can make an exception to my rule.”

“And your rule is?”

“No sweets before lunch.” Alfred looked down at Dick and winked. The ebony haired boy was taken aback by the action. It was a genuinely innocent gesture. Dick had yet to determine the reason why Bruce took him in, but everything that Alfred had done since then fell perfectly within basic reasoning. A tour of the manor was logical, food was necessary, and Dick did need clothes. But he didn’t need ice cream, and the wink was unnecessary.

He just didn’t understand it.

Rather than getting ice cream in the mall, Alfred drove them to a small parlour in the city. Dick got chocolate, and was thoroughly surprised when Alfred got himself a scoop. Mint chocolate chip. They were sitting outside, and Dick was very aware of the fact that he was staring.

“Does something bother you?”

“You don’t look like an ice cream person,” Dick answered without hesitation.

“I can assure you, Master Richard, even I had ice cream as a child. And I might still enjoy it now.” Alfred winked again, which only succeeded in deepening Dick’s confusion. “If you’re finished, Master Richard, I believe it’s time we return to the manor.”

Dick focused on his shoes while he walked, and barely tore his eyes away when climbing into the car. He knocked his heels together, eyes boring into the small red dot staining one of the yellow ovals. He wondered absently if the blood had belonged to Howell, Jack, or Chase.

He felt guilty for their deaths, knew it was his fault. Just like his family. He’d never even gotten to tell them his real name.

“Dick,” he whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“I-it’s a nickname, for Richard. Call me Dick.” Dick looked up, almost cautiously, and met Alfred’s eyes in the mirror.

“Of course, Master Dick.”

The butler’s smile was unbelievably kind.

Dick knew he didn’t deserve it.


	16. Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 16

**|July 26 th**

**|3:21 am**

Dick didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, afraid that any noise would alert the bulky shadow to his presence. It was, after all, a sharp intake of breath when Dick stubbed his toe that caused the figure to stop. The little acrobat was actually supposed to be in bed, as of ten o’clock that night. But he had been awoken by his nightmares hardly an hour after his eyes closed. The nightmare had followed its usual themes. The circus, the trapeze, broken and bloody corpses begging for revenge while Zucco laughed from the sidelines. Although there had been something different about this dream. Two silhouettes had been standing at the big tip entrance. Dick easily recognized Wilson’s shadowy figure, the majority of their early interactions having taken place in the darkness. And he easily identified the pointed ears of Batman’s cowl on the second figure.

In the nightmare, neither of them made a move to help. They just stood and watched. When Dick jolted out of bed, feeling his usual guilt and anger, he was plagued with thoughts of vigilantism. Previously he’d had little interest in superheroes. With the circus, they were constantly moving, staying in a city for the standard five days before moving on. Hardly enough time to become invested in the local vigilante, if there even was one. But Dick had been living in Gotham for months now. Granted, he had been more concerned with his own villains, but decided it was time to learn about this city’s dark protector.

There was a chance that Batman could help him. It _was_ the Bat that brought in Zucco’s flunky cop. If it weren’t for that, Zucco would still be considered innocent. But just two days ago, the former cop broke and confessed to accepting bribes, and laid out Zucco’s gang connections. If anyone were still doubting Zucco’s guilt, his sudden disappearance was all the remaining proof they needed. Zucco may have acted tough that night at the circus, but he got spooked the second one lackey spilled his secrets.

Dick was certain the man was still in Gotham. He was heavily invested in Gotham’s criminal world, and probably too proud to pull away yet, scared or otherwise. This meant there were only two people that could find him now. Dick Grayson, or Batman. Dick didn’t even consider the possibility that the police would find him first. He knew first had how incompetent and oblivious they could be.

It was for this reason that, when Dick woke to a silent manor, he decided to do some research on Bruce’s laptop. That had all gone smooth. He had padded into Bruce’s study just after eleven, stole away to his room to work in peace, and had made the decision to return the laptop and stop for the night only a few minutes ago.

Which led to Dick’s current predicament.

Over the past few fights, filled with late night reading, Dick had learned something very important. Bruce’s activities didn’t quiet down at night, they left the manor entirely. A few midnight strolls revealed the billionaire frequently left the house at night, and didn’t return until much later. But Bruce didn’t just come back late, he came back _early_ , when the sky was starting to lighten.

It was for this reason that Dick was perfectly confident returning the laptop past three in the morning, secure in the knowledge that its absence would go completely unnoticed. But as he approached the study, he heard a soft click and heavy footfalls.

Dick scrambled back as the door to the study opened, wondering if someone had broken into the house and nearly fell backwards when the wall suddenly disappeared. He caught himself against the wall, then rushed forwards to take a peak. In his haste, Dick stubbed his toe on the corner of the wall and his breathing hitched.

The figure that emerged from the study stopped, and neither one moved for several seconds. The person turned in Dick’s direction, and he was able to glimpse a face. It was Bruce, he had returned early. Dick was small enough that, partially crouched as he was, the corner he hid behind and the large vase next to it obscured him from view. Bruce would only see him if he knew where to look, which he didn’t. Dick had no such troubles taking in the image of his guardian.

It was odd, to say the least. Bruce’s hair was unkempt, and he had a tired look in his eyes. The strangest part, though, was his attire. Or lack thereof. Bruce wore a pair of sweatpants, but no shirt, and Dick could easily see a large gauze patch on the man’s side. It was spotted red. After noticing the first injury, the others were easy to find. A large bruise blossoming on his shoulder, a small cut on his chin, the way he put all his weight on one foot, signalling some kind of leg injury.

Dick stifled a gasp, knowing he couldn’t risk making any noise. But he had been holding his breath for too long and his lungs were starting to burn. Instead, he slowly backed away from the corner, bumping his heels against a step and blindly walking up a few steps without pulling his eyes away from the hall. He heard a footstep – in Bruce’s current state he wasn’t’ as careful about moving silently – and turned to climb faster.

A soft faint chime reached his ears, along with a gruff voice that barely sounded like Bruce, but could only be him saying, “I’m here.” The billionaire was distracted, and he was safe. Deciding it would be best to wait a while, he continued going up. The staircase was narrow and winding, almost making Dick feel dizzy. There was a small landing at the top, and an unlocked door. It obviously hadn’t been open in a while, because Dick had to apply some force. And when it did open the sudden motion sent dust swirling in the air. Dick coughed into shirt as he closed the door and looked around the room. It was an attic, filled with old furniture and artwork that was probably once scattered throughout the manor. The ceiling was sloped, and motes of dust swirled in the moonlight. Dick set Bruce’s laptop, which he only just realized he was still holding, down on a cloth covered table and moved to the only window in the room. Pulling the thin curtain aside revealed it was actually glass door.

Dick opened it and stepped out onto the balcony. It was small, more decorative than functional, and the thin layer of grime on the railing meant it hadn’t been visited in a long time. With glance, Dick knew the attic he’d found was in fact the tallest gable at the front of the house. He was standing on the section of roof above the front door. Looking down he could see the staircase and fountain, and beyond that the gravel drive to the gate and main road. Dick examined the walls and roof around him before neatly hopping over the banister.

It had rained earlier that night, so the roof was slippery and Dick was forced to wrap his arms around a marble post to stop himself from falling. He leaned back and looked over his shoulder before letting go and sliding down. There just barely a second of freefall before his feet collided with the stone of one of the parapets. He sunk into a roll to lessen the impact, even though it wasn’t a big one anyways. From there he jumped onto a gently sloping section of flat roof and made his way to the base of the gable, where it met with another section of roof. With the assistance of the indented corner, Dick ran to the top of the gable and sat on its peak, scooting towards the edge until his feet were dangling off the highest point of Wayne Manor.

Bruce was probably long gone from the hallway by now, but Dick decided he would stay outside a little while longer. He hadn’t been this high up in months, and it felt nice to perch above of the ground, like the little bird his mother always claimed he was.


	17. Who Cares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 17

**|July 28 th**

**|9:48 pm**

He couldn’t believe it, he’d actually done it. Dick snuck out of Wayne Manor, virtually undetected. He was making his way to Gotham on a bike he’d picked up in someone’s front yard. He felt a little guilty, but it was necessary. He needed to see Batman.

Between research and his personal coding lessons, Dick had been monitoring the news for any action the vigilante might be involved in. He needed Batman’s resources, and possibly even his help, if he wanted to find Zucco. Dick had been in the upstairs sitting room reading through some printed files, and digging through a dictionary every time he met a word he didn’t recognize.

Bruce, who Dick didn’t even realize what in the manor at that time, had rushed by with Alfred close behind. Twenty minutes later there was an emergency broadcast. Firefly, who or whatever that was, was loose in the city. Based on the urgency of the reporter, and the burning building the broadcast briefly cut to, it seemed like the logical time to find Batman. Dick wrote down the address and left the manor.

If he was lucky, Alfred wouldn’t notice he was gone for a good hour. Dick had faith that Bruce wouldn’t notice at all. He was on the outskirts of Gotham now, and there was only one problem. How would he find the address? It was close to Crime Alley, the citywide nickname for Park Row. He could navigate that area easily. But he didn’t know how to get there from here. Gotham was a big city, he couldn’t just pick a direction and walk.

But he could follow the fire.

Dick ditched the bike on the sidewalk and scaled the closest fire escape to the top of a building. He scanned the horizon. There were plenty of taller buildings around, but that didn’t stop him from noticing a slight glow in the distance. He looked over the side of the building, at the bike he had left on the pavement. If he headed back down to the streets, he could easily get lost, or lose sight of where he wanted to go. Especially since he couldn’t see it from down there.

Looking back up, Dick eyed the surrounding rooves. The buildings steadily grew taller towards the middle of the city, with Wayne Tower rising above them all. But in the direction he wanted, they appeared to remain relatively the same height. A running start would be best.

Dick backed up to the center of the roof and took off. He planted his foot on the building ledge and launched into a front flip to gain some extra height, just in case. He didn’t stop when his feet hit the next rooftop. He rolled to control his balance, and kept running as soon as he was upright. He knew what he was doing was dangerous. Running and jumping across rooves, ten stories up, with nothing to catch him but the cold, unforgiving concrete? His family hadn’t even been that high up.

Dick cast away images of battered corpses, halos of blood, and broken limbs. This was the first time he’d done anything truly acrobatic since before juvie, and he missed it a lot. He still preferred the trapeze. Swinging through the air, feeling the rush of wind. But this was close. The rush of adrenaline was almost the same.

Caught up in the moment, Dick didn’t even consider the dangers of his first major obstacle before he’d already leapt from the building. The gap was much wider than any previous ones, and the building was taller as well. Even with the added boost of his front flips, he wasn’t high enough. Dick’s arms shot out to capture the ledge. The brick scraped against his skin as he tried to hoist himself up. His feet scrabbled against the walls, trying to find purchase.

Dick had almost made it when suddenly one of his arms slipped, and he swung to the side to avoid the falling brick. It had been loose, and his added weight worked it loose. The sound of it shattering against the concrete, while nothing like the thud of falling bodies, was enough to shock Dick out of his concentration. He flinched and his grip slipped. His stomach dropped as he did.

Desperate, he slapped at the wall as he passed, the rough stone tearing open the skin on his hands. He could picture it already, head bouncing off the pavement, body splayed with blood seeping out from hidden wounds. Maybe some random passerby would peer into the alley and see his body, or maybe no one would notice for days, until a homeless person hobbled into the shadows looking for a place to rest, and finding him instead.

But Dick’s panicked efforts paid off and, instead of hitting the ground below, he managed to grab a window ledge firmly with both hands. His arms burned at the sudden pull, but remained firmly in their sockets. He pulled himself up, lucky to find the window actually open, and hoisted himself through the window. He tumbled to the floor, lungs heaving and arms aching. Dick rose on tremble legs and stumbled over to the window. He leaned out and stared at the ground that had been fast approaching just seconds earlier.

Dick couldn’t contain the slightly hysterical giggle that slipped past his lips. “Sunt bine _?_ ” [ _I’m_ _fine_ ]

“Sunt bine!” He yelled and laughed again, this time louder and a little more control. He took off down the hall towards the stairwell, cartwheeling and flipping his way across the carpet. When he reached the top, Dick burst out onto the roof and ran towards the edge. He leaned over again and shouted gleefully.

“Sunt bine!”

It had been dangerous. Horribly, incredibly dangerous. And he loved it. The rush of adrenaline, the pounding of his heart. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Dick was grinning madly, flipping around the rooftop. He rolled and stopped, seated on the ground with his legs crossed and a hand pressed to his chest. His heart was still beating quickly, and he took a few deep breaths to calm it.

“Congratulations, you did what your family couldn’t.”

Dick’s head shot up and he whipped around to see the figure standing on the other side of the roof. Hidden in the shadow of a taller building, he couldn’t make out what the person looked like, but he didn’t need to. Dick recognized the voice.

“Wilson!” He almost shouted. “You came for me.”

“Not quite. I was surprised to learn you were no longer at the detention facility, what happened?” Wilson remained in the shadows, but Dick didn’t mind. That’s how he was when they first met.

“Bruce Wayne took me in.”

“He adopted you?”

“No, I’m his charge.” Dick shook his head. He didn’t want to be mistaken as that man’s son.

“Hmm.” Wilson paused. “Grant betrayed you.”

Just the name was enough to light Dick’s eyes with fury. “It’s all his fault!”

“You’re angry, that’s good.”

“Yeah, I’m angry,” Dick hissed sharply.

“You need to use that anger. Letting go, forgiving? That’s for the weak. Anger will fuel your strength, you can rely on it. Grant will not be the only person to ever betray you, boy. Everyone betrays you eventually. Remember that.”

“And you? You said you’d help me.”

“You’re right, I did say that. But I won’t.”

Dick shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “You promised!”

“I did. I won’t help, _yet_. You’ve intrigued me, Richard. In a way few people have, and you’ve far exceeded my expectations despite your young age. I have high hopes for you. But, once again, you’ve brought to much attention to yourself.”

“No one pays attention to me,” Dick grumbled.

“I do,” Wilson said, and Dick looked up, hope in his eyes. “People might not yet, but they will. If you go with me now, he won’t stop until he gets you back.”

Dick’s frown returned. “I doubt it.”

“Never doubt. You can suspect, but never doubt. That’s underestimating, and the moment you underestimate something, you are already defeated.”

“You won’t help me right now. What am I supposed to do?”

“What you’ve always done, Richard. I want you to survive, prove yourself worthy.”

Dick nodded.

“Good. And remember, when you think no one cares, I’ll still be waiting.”

Dick closed his eyes a moment, remembering Wilson’s words. It felt good, knowing that someone still cared. When he opened them Wilson was gone. Dick’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. He turned, readying himself to resume his rooftop jaunt, only to see the glow of fire had died. At some point, the emergency services had arrived and doused the flame. That was good, technically. But it meant Batman wouldn’t be there anymore.

Frustrated, Dick lashed out and kicked the closest thing to him. A block of wood, probably used to prop the door open every once in a while. It was solid and Dick cried out at the flare of pain in his toes. It was a stupid, rash action, but it helped to ease his anger. Wilson mentioning Grant had put him on edge.

Dick was about to head back to his stolen bike a rustle of fabric caught his attention. His first thought was that Wilson had returned, but the older man always moved silently, and didn’t really wear anything that rustled. He looked over his shoulder and saw a new shadow, this one standing out in the open, as if it had just appeared on the roof.

The cape and the cowl were recognized instantly.

“Batman,” Dick said, almost hesitantly.

“It’s dangerous out at night,” Batman said, and it sounded like the little acrobat was being scolded.

“What if I live here?”

“You don’t.”

“What if I do? You don’t know that.”

“I know.”

Dick’s first impression was that this costumed man reminded him of Wilson, even though they’d only exchanged a few short sentences.

“How would you know?”

“I’m Batman.”

“That’s not a motiv.” [ _Reason_ ] Dick frowned at the slip to Romanian, and fumbled for the proper English word. “Reason. That’s not a reason.”

It was imperceptible, barely noticeable, but the man’s lips seemed to twitch. “I saw you in the papers.”

“I need your help,” Dick said, suddenly remembering the very reason he went out that night. “You know why?”

“Tony Zucco.”

“Yes. I’m going to catch him, but I can’t find him on my own.”

“You shouldn’t find him at all.”

“You won’t help me either.” Dick didn’t need to ask, he knew it already.

“You’re a child, you shouldn’t chase after criminals. I’ll find Zucco myself.”

“But that’s not good enough! _I_ need to find him!” Dick shouted.

Batman seemed to pause and look him over. Dick knew that he didn’t look like much. Seven years old, and small for his age. But people always underestimated him. He was incredibly smart, and strong for his size. In a way it gave him an advantage over some people. But it also had no effect on others, like Dean or Jeremy. Although they got what was coming to them.

Dick still didn’t know what Wilson had done with his former caretaker, presumably taken him far away to wake up in some dumpster. He should have asked. Jeremy was probably back to tormenter those younger than him.

“Why do you need to find him?”

“He killed my family.”

“But why _you?_ ”

Dick hesitated, unsure of how to answer. He knew the reason, of course, but explaining to someone else wouldn’t be easy. A common English phrase jumped to the front of his mind. “An eye for an eye.”

The lenses of Batman’s cowl seemed to narrow, and Dick knew his words had struck a chord.

“I’ll find him,” Batman promised. Dick believed him. Despite Wilson’s words not even a minute ago, he felt like he could trust the vigilante. Batman really did want to help, he just didn’t want to help Dick.

“I know you could’ve,” Dick said. “But I’ll find him first.”

With those final words, Dick spun around and started back the way he came. Batman didn’t follow.

...

**|July 29 th**

**|12:02 am**

Returning to Wayne Manor proved to be as easy as leaving. He rode the bike all the way back, leaving it in a nearby ditch for the owner to stumble upon during the day, and climbed the gate. Dick ran across the yard, skirting around the house until he found the window he’d left by. There was a large tree he easily scaled, with a branch extending just under the window sill. He stepped inside the hallway, sliding the window shut, and walked to his bedroom several doors down.

He couldn’t hear any activity, meaning neither Alfred nor Bruce had probably noticed he’d left in the first place. Dick felt a pang of sadness, but it was probably for the better. He slipped inside his room, making his way blindly to the bed, and flopped onto the mattress when his legs bumped against the frame. He started rolling towards his pillow, but was stopped by something plush.

Dick reached out, fumbling in the dark, and his fingers rushed against something soft. His hand stilled and his eyes snapped open. He pulled his face from the mattress and looked to his right. There, in the sliver of moonlight slipping by his curtains, was Zitka. Her rips were repaired. Piled behind her was everything he’d left in Dean’s apartment. His little suitcase. The German and Italian books, his parents’ wedding rings. His father’s watch, his mother’s necklace, and the family photo. It had been taped back together.

There was moment of stillness before Dick lunged across the bed, wrapping his arms around Zitka and pulling her close. Wilson had brought her back, he’d brought everything back.

A weak sob was smothered in Zitka’s fur before Dick pulled away. He opened the suitcase, sifting through its contents before moving it off the bed. With his precious things tucked away inside, sans Zitka who was still in his arms, he slid it under the bed. If Alfred saw it, the kindly butler would question where he got it, and Dick didn’t want to tell anyone about Wilson.

Without bothering to change into pajamas, Dick snuggled under his covers, Zitka held tightly to his chest.

Bruce may not care, Alfred may care a little, and Batman may not just care enough, but Wilson did. And Dick would make him proud.


	18. Publicity Stunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 18
> 
> Romani speech is bold and italicized

**|July 29 th**

**|8:04 am**

When Dick went down for breakfast, he was surprised to find Bruce sitting at the table, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other. He’d grown accustomed to eating on his own coming to the manor. Dick had tried to get Alfred to join him several times, but the butler always declined. Dick felt bad, but he was always relieved. He made the offer to just be polite more than anything. He may have been warming up to the butler, but Dick was still wary.

Not so long ago he revelled in the time spent bonding over meals. Teasing and being teased by Johnny, giving small scraps of food at the circus animals, or just spending time with his family. Once they were gone, there were the spare moments in Lee’s Laundromat when Chase would smirk at his growling stomach and toss him a bag of chips, or an apple. In the detention center, practicing American Sign Language with Rose over their trays of questionable gruel. But after spending an increasing amount of time alone, and having lost trust in the vast majority of the human population, despite only ever being in contact with a few of them, he came to prefer the solitude.

It didn’t help that Bruce wouldn’t stop staring at him.

Dick shifted in his seat, picking at a scone, extremely conscious of the stack of papers on his lap. He’d originally been planning on reading through breakfast, but decided against it the moment he saw Bruce.

“Richard.”

Dick glanced at Bruce, finally meeting his eyes. The billionaire had set his coffee and newspaper down, and his hands were now folded in front of him, resting on the table.

“After the accident-”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Dick mumbled.

Bruce simply nodded.

“How do you know?” Dick couldn’t help but ask. Not being a member of the police force, or able to hack into their system (yet), he wasn’t sure if Zucco’s lackey cop had divulged the mobster’s involvement in his family’s murder yet.

“It was in the paper.” Bruce pushed it across the table, and Dick glanced at the main article.

**Alleged mob boss Tony Zucco responsible for Falling Graysons?**

Dick bristled at the heading and felt a surge of anger. Falling Graysons. It was disrespectful. The Graysons flew, and that’s how they should be remembered. He shoved the paper away and focused his glare on Bruce.

The billionaire seemed to sense that Dick’s anger wasn’t directed on him, and continued. “You attended the funeral, but have you been to see their graves since?”

Dick stiffened and shook his head.

“And your uncle?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?” The question sounded awkward, and Dick gave Bruce a calculating stare. Why was he suddenly being so nice, after days of ignoring him? There was no logical basis. Bruce had nothing to gain from this. But Dick did want to see them. He nodded.

“I have an important meeting today, but I can take you tomorrow.”

Dick nodded again, in thanks. He was still skeptical, but he needed this. Bruce, apparently satisfied, got up and left. Although he actually stopped to say goodbye, and that he would be back later, before leaving for work. Dick started at the door for several minutes after it closed, nearly oblivious to Alfred clearing away the dishes, which he normally helped with.

Bruce Wayne was a strange and confusing man, and Dick would find out why.

...

**|July 30 th**

**|9:00 am**

Bruce suggested going to the cemetery first, and Dick readily agreed. He wasn’t prepared to see his uncle yet. On the ride over, Dick was trying to solve the puzzle that was Bruce Wayne. Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist – the title most newspapers gave him – and secret keeper.

Most of what Dick knew he’d gleaned from online reading, but he’d observed everything important. The charming smile Bruce featured in most of his pictures was fake. Not too surprising. Being famous, Bruce’s entire life had an audience, and Dick knew about audiences. You had to please them, to keep them coming back. A warm smile went a long way to do that.

But Bruce seemed to go overboard. He was took charming. Dick had also seen a few articles on the businessman’s drunken escapades. Bruce didn’t feel like the kind of man who would willingly become uncontrollably drunk, but it was apparent to Dick that he did it frequently. Which meant it was intentional, more than just personal enjoyment.

There were the disappearances as well. Last night Dick had searched the entire manor and didn’t find Bruce, despite witnessing the man coming back, and watching all the doors for an hour after the sun set. Bruce also seemed to disappear from the tabloids from time to time, for varying lengths of time. But he always returned in full throttle part mode. At first Dick would have assumed Bruce was just takin breaks from high society life, but paired with the injuries he’d seen the other night, there was a more troubling conclusion.

Bruce was frequently injured enough to warrant seclusion, and hid his injuries from the public eye. Dick had read the headlines of several papers from around the times Bruce lapsed into reclusive behaviour over the years. A lot of them focused on Gotham villains breaking out of Arkham, or being thrown back in.

The longest period of tabloid silence Dick noticed was a month, and it had actually taken place February of that year, around the time that the Appelaxians invaded. Dick didn’t know a lot about the alien race, few people did. They just showed up one day, and seven heroes swooped in to save the world. Haley’s had been in Seattle at the time, away from all the action.

Dick had a working theory, but he was hesitant to believe it. He needed solid proof before he could go around saying that Bruce Wayne is-

“We’re here.”

Dick’s thoughts stuttered to a halt as he looked out the window. The cemetery looked much the same as it had the day of the funeral. A shuttering click drew his attention to a man down the street, with a large camera in his hands. The man was grinning, and waved briefly before scurrying away. Dick frowned before getting out of the car, not bothering to wait for Bruce he made his way along the gravel path.

It was just the two of them. Bruce had insisted on driving himself despite Alfred’s offer, and Dick couldn’t decide is he was happy about that or not.

He liked that there would be one less person to witness the one-sided conversation he intended on having. But Dick wasn’t sure if he wanted the person that would be watching to be Bruce. He almost liked the butler, but had vastly different thoughts about Bruce. Although his theory might change that.

Plus, Bruce had lost his parents as well. He understood what Dick was going through, and wouldn’t watch in pity.

Dick didn’t stop walking until he reached the four identical gravestones. He checked to see how close Bruce was, and was surprised to see the man standing a fair distance away, well out of earshot. Dick gave him a brief nod, possibly in thanks, before facing his family.

“Hi Mami, Tati. Antie Karla, Johnny. I’m working on my English, I hope you don’t mind.” Dick knelt down in front of the graves, dragging his fingers through the lush grass. “Bruce isn’t close enough to hear, so it’s fine. I’m living with him now, Bruce Wayne. A lot’s happened. The bad man, he’s gone. He got mad one day, and I was scared. Then Wilson came, he’s like my guardian angel. He’s been helping me. I hit the bad man, and Wilson took him away.”

Dick’s fingers stilled, and his fingers curled tightly. “But he already hurt me, a lot. And he… he killed my friends. I lived on the streets for a few days, but they put me in juvie. I think I did something bad. There was a boy, he was mean to me, like the bad man. Then I got mad, just like the _bad man_ , and I hit him, bad. I don’ know what happened to him.”

Dick looked at his father’s headstone. “Tati, you told me hitting people it bad. Even Johnny, but these people, they des – um, they der… it was right. There’s another bad man, two I guess, that it’s right to hit. I’m gonna get Zucco, jus’ you wait. And Grant… I’ll tell you about him later. But Bruce came and took me out of juvie. I don’ really like him. He’s not like you, and I know he’s dangerous. Don’ worry, Tati, he’ll never replace you.”

He focused on his mother, switching to Romani. “ ** _I_ _have_ _the_ _costume still. I think Bruce got it from the circus before taking me in. I’m gonna wear it again, just not like you wanted. Please don’t be mad. Zucco needs to know it’s me._** ”

Dick wanted to say more to her, but he wasn’t sure what. He just hoped she wouldn’t be too mad when he put on the costume again. Dick kissed his fingers and pressed the stone, like he used to do with his mother’s cheek, and focused on the two remaining graves.

“I’m gonna see Uncle Rick today. I haven’t seen ‘im in a while. I know this is all my fault, I know you blame me. But please, don’t tell Rick. I don’ want him to be mad, even though he should be. I’ll tell ‘im hi for you. I’m sure he misses you too.”

Dick hovered a moment, hands resting on his knees. He looked at each grave in turn before standing up and brushing off his pants. Not that he really cared, but Bruce was waiting. Dick said a quick goodbye and turned away.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked.

Dick considered the question a moment. “Better.”

He didn’t even realize he’d felt worse before, but talking to his family had certainly helped. And it calmed his nerves as well. But he felt his nervousness returning when he noticed the small crowd of people by the cemetery gates.

Bruce just sighed. “Richard, can you take my hand?”

Dick frowned at the offered appendage. It was an extremely fatherly gesture, and Bruce had been nothing like that since they’d met. He’d hardly even been a guardian. “Why?”

“So we don’t get separated.”

“The car is right there, and I’m not a little kid.” Dick crossed his arms and made an indignant sound when Bruce chuckled. He actually _chuckled_.

“I’m sure you’re a perfectly competent seven year old. I’m not asking you to enjoy it, or agree with me. Please, Richard?”

Dick huffed but complied, a little surprised Bruce had said please. When they reached the gates, Dick was suddenly happy he’d listened. The people immediately swarmed them, cameras flashing, and microphones thrusting forwards. Dick cringed away from them, resisting the urge to give the squeaky voiced woman to his right a sweeping kick.

“Mr. Wayne!”

“Bruce!”

“Mr. Wayne, over here!”

“Who’s the boy?”

“Is he your son, from a past relationship?”

“Is he the boy seen with your butler several days ago?”

They were just a few feet from the car when Bruce stopped and faced the cameras. Dick, recalling his thoughts of an audience, flashed a brilliant, and no doubt adorable smile. If anything, it would serve to make the reporters underestimate him.

“This is Richard Grayson who, as of July 18th, is my ward.” There was a beat of silence, then an explosion of questions as Bruce ushered Dick towards the car.

“Grayson as in Flying Graysons?”

“What’s your opinion on the search for Zucco?”

“Why did you decided to take in a circus orphan?”

“Is this an elaborate publicity stunt?”

The door slammed shut, but not before Dick heard the last question. He watched Bruce walk around the car, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Was the reporter right? It would answer all of Dick’s questions. He never did understand why Bruce took him in. But adopting a circus orphan would tug on heartstrings everywhere. It made perfect sense.

For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Dick actually deflated at the thought. That’s all he was, a publicity stunt. A tool to garner affection, and keep the audience coming back for more.

**...**

**|11:27 am**

For reasons Dick couldn’t fathom, he was hesitating. He’d practically run through the rest of hospital, and Bruce had to maintain a fast pace in order to keep up. Dick skirted around nurses, doctors, patients, and visitors. He was even forced to tuck and roll when he barrelled around a corner and nearly collided with a wiry boy in a wheelchair. Dick didn’t even stop to apologize. But the moment he was outside that pale door, he froze.

On the other side of that door was his only living relative. Well, he had distant Romani relatives from his mother’s side. Dick didn’t know anything about his father’s family, besides Uncle Rick, who was one door away.

Dick flinched when a strong hand gripped his shoulder. Images of Dean, Ms. Kincaid, the guards at the detention centre, all flashed through his mind, and he pulled away. Bruce was giving him another odd look, but didn’t press it further. Dick had been silent for the entire car ride, contemplating his newest discovery, and ignored all of Bruce’s questions. But not he was focused on something else.

Four months, that’s how long it’d been since Dick saw his uncle being rushed away in an ambulance. Dick knew nothing about his condition, only that he was alive. What would he say? What would Uncle Rick say? Dick knew he’d change a lot in those four months, maybe he wouldn’t even recognize his nephew.

“If you’re not ready…” Bruce’s voice trailed off, sounding unsure of himself. It was obvious he didn’t know how to handle the situation. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to handle mildly distraught children. Although he wasn’t good with kids that were the opposite of distraught either.

What would be the opposite of distraught?

“No.” Dick shook his head sharply, in answer to Bruce’s implied question, and to clear his mind of distracting thoughts. Four months was too long already. He had to see Rick today.

Dick took a deep breath, bracing himself, and slid the door open. He sighed in relief when he realized Rick was sleeping. There was more time to prepare. Dick walked up to the bed, hearing the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. He dragged a chair over from the corner, climbed on top, and got his first good look at his uncle.

Rick didn’t just look asleep, he looked dead. His face was gaunt, and the arms resting above the sheets look thin. He was also unbelievably still. If it weren’t for the subtle rise and fall of his lungs, or the fact that Rick’s skin wasn’t cold, Dick would have thought him dead.

Dick stared at his uncle in disbelief, glanced at Bruce, and turned to the man in the bed again. There were a couple healed lacerations visible on Rick’s skin, but no other signs of injury. It had been four months, after all. Now that Dick thought about it, four months should have been adequate time for Rick to heal. At least he thought so. So why was he still in the hospital?

“What’s wrong with him?” Dick asked the only other occupant in the room. He had to tear his eyes away from his uncle.

Bruce was shocked by the wide-eyed boy looking at him so intensely. If he’d noticed one thing about the little acrobat in the short time they’ve known each other, it’s that Dick Grayson did not act like a normal seven year old boy. He acted tough, read a lot – Bruce had suspicions the youngest Grayson was a genius – and lacked the normal carefree behaviour of a child. But now, bright blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and bottom lip quivering? Bruce had never seem him so young.

“Your uncle is in a coma.”

Dick blinked and tried to clear his eyes. He’d read that word during one of his perusals of the dictionary.

“He’s un… uncon-shess?” Dick asked.

“Unconscious,” Bruce corrected. “And the doctors aren’t sure when he’ll wake up. Even if he does, he’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

“Paralyzed?”

“It means he can’t use his legs.”

Uncle Rick won’t be able to walk, won’t be able to _fly._

 _If_ he wakes up.

Dick was trembling. Graysons were born to fly, it’s what they were made for. Aunt Karla used to joke that it was the whole reason the trapeze existed, just for them. The rest of the circus heartily agreed. A grounded Grayson was wrong.

But, Dick mused, they were all grounded now.


	19. He is Batman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 19

**|August 1 st**

**|2:40 pm**

For the first time in four months, Dick was watching TV. There were three phrases that he heard repeated several times over.

“ _Circus orphan._ ”

“ _Publicity stunt._ ”

“ _Charity case._ ”

Every gossip channel was talking about it. Playboy Bruce Wayne had taken in a poor circus orphan. The question of the day was why. The goodness of his heart? The Wayne Foundation was a massive charity, maybe Bruce was taking it a step further to help one poor, unfortunate soul directly. A publicity stunt? Maybe Bruce was trying to regain public favour after a recent – false – scandal. In either case, people wondered why Richard Grayson, of all needy children, had been taken in instead of a local Gothamite. Why a foreigner? Why a Romanian? Why a _gypsy_?

It wasn’t hard for Dick to decide he didn’t like these people. They used the word gypsy as an insult. He’d looked it up during one his jaunts on Bruce’s computer, and discovered it was another term for Romani people. He’d struggled at first with the reasoning. It was an alternate name for his and his mother’s people, so why did people spit it like a curse? It seemed to him to be a ridiculous concept. People obviously didn’t like him because he was Romani, although he wasn’t sure how they knew that anyways, and it didn’t make any sense. They knew nothing about him or his family. They just didn’t like what he identified as.

Dick scowled at the TV, tempted to launch the remote at the middle of the screen. He would have, if it weren’t for the fact that when he reached down, it was gone, and the screen turned black. Dick looked up to see Alfred standing behind the couch, remote in hand, with a disapproving scowl on his face.

“Some people are too ignorant for their own good.” Alfred tutted, setting the remote back down. “Don’t listen to a thing they say, Master Dick.”

Dick watched the butler as he left the room, pausing momentarily at the door.

“I would suggest returning Master Bruce’s laptop to his study before he returns home. He’s left work early today.” Alfred nods and leaves, while Dick glances at the laptop. He’d stuffed it under a pillow several minutes ago when the butler walked through, and hadn’t taken it out from its hiding place yet. But Dick was fast learning that Alfred knew everything.

Laptop in hand, he went to Bruce’s study, satisfied that he easily found his way. Even though he and Alfred were the only people in the house, Dick found himself tiptoeing into the room, being as quiet as possible. There was just something about it that demanded silence.

He deposited the laptop in its usual spot on Bruce’s desk, but found himself lingering. This was the room where Bruce spent most of his time at the manor. This is where he always went before disappearing for the evening. If Dick wanted proof of his theory, he’d find it here.

Barely feeling a twinge of guilt for the massive invasion of privacy, Dick started digging through the desk. He didn’t find anything unusual, just business documents, folders with financial information, and other things like that. He checked Bruce’s chair, the couch, the bookshelves and the artwork. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

Dick glared at the bust of Alan Wayne, as if blaming the long dead man for his lack of solid evidence. He approached the pedestal and placed both hands firmly on either side of Alan’s head. He wasn’t confident that he’d be strong enough to move the solid marble artwork, but it was the last place left to look. Dick pulled, but nothing happened, literally. The bust didn’t even move, which was odd. It wasn’t made out of the same stone as the pedestal, so they shouldn’t have been fused together. But as far as Dick knew, they were.

He went to the other side grabbing Alan’s head from the back, as if that would make a difference, and pulled again. Dick was thoroughly surprised the top half of the bust seemed to come of completely. He scrambled back, not wanting the solid stone to smash against his foot. But it didn’t fall backwards. Instead it dropped right back into position, looking to different than it had seconds ago. Dick moved forwards with caution, and pulled the head back again. Once again the upper half started to tip back, but fell back into place once it was let go.

Dick was grinning almost madly now. He stood in front of the bust and pushed Alan’s nose. The head tilted back, and a smooth black button was revealed in a hollowed out centre. He was all too eager to press it with his small hands. There was a click, a heavy thump, and a hiss as one of the bookcase sections moved backwards into the wall and slid to the side, revealing an elevator.

Dick let the bust fall shut and shot forwards. The elevator shifted as he stepped on it, and the bookcase moved back into place while it started to descend.

“Whoa.” Dick breathed, staring as the walls shifted from brick, to natural rock. A light on the open elevator illuminated the immediate area, but left the space above his head and below his feet shrouded in darkness. Dick was still staring forwards when the sound of squeaking reach his ears, and the temperature suddenly dropped. He spun around and gaped at the sight before him.

“Whoa!” His excited shout echoed off the cave walls. It was absolutely massive. Metal platforms and walkways were scattered around the cave. On the main floor where the elevator stopped was a large computer console, along with a sleek black vehicle with wing-like additions. By a pool of water on the cave floor was a life-sized t-rex statue. A joker playing card that had to be as tall as Bruce was hanging from the wall, and a giant penny sat on one of the balcony platforms jutting from the walls.

Dick stepped off the elevator, the floor cold against his bare feet. Glass cases were scattered everywhere, filled with what looked like souvenirs of past battles. He could see a curve at the far end of the room, indicating that this wasn’t all there was to the cave. And even this had to be as big as the manor itself. Ick spotted a work table, with a rack of weapons above it. Smoke bombs, spare belts, grappling guns, and distinctly shaped throwing stars that weren’t stars at all.

He spun around, taking in everything, and his eyes settled on a glass tube lit from within.

“ _Whoa_.” This time the word was blunt and soft. Inside the case was a mannequin, wearing a very familiar costume.

Dick wanted definitive proof, and he found it. Bruce Wayne was Batman. He felt a thrill of excitement. Not did Dick know Batman’s secret identity, but he deduced it himself. Stumbling on the Batcave only confirmed his theory.

He looked to the computer and thought of all the files, all the information that would be on there. In seconds he was there, hands hovering over the keyboard. It demanded a password right away. Dick hesitated. His computer skills had improved, but he sincerely doubted he could actually hack Batman’s computer. He could, however, guess the password. But he’d only have one chance.

The numbers on the keyboard were lit up brighter than the numbers, so the password was probably numerical. Anyone else would assume Batman to use a random set of numbers, but Dick had an advantage. He knew Bruce Wayne as well.

The entrance to the Batcave involved something related to Batman’s identity. It didn’t seem like much of a stretch that the password would be similar.

In Bruce’s study, there was a painting of his parents. It could have been for sentimental reasons, except he didn’t really seem the overly sentimental type. The painting didn’t face Bruce’s desk, so if he wanted to look at it frequently, he would have to make the effort of constantly craning his neck to the side. It would be uncomfortable, and illogical. But it _was_ adjacent to the bookcases. Every time Bruce left the Batcave, he would see that painting.

Dick knew about what happened to Bruce’s parents. When he was twelve, he watched them die. Shot by a mugger in an alley. It would have been traumatic, life changing, inspiring. The painting was a reminder of why Bruce was Batman.

The password was eight digits, if the segmented line across the middle of the screen was any indication. Both Martha Wayne and John Wayne were too long. Dick lowered himself into the computer chair, sitting on his knees to make himself Bruce’s height. He slowly spun around, looking around at what he could see of the cave. The t-rex, penny, and playing card were all visible. Along with a few other crime fighting souvenirs. More reminders, but this time not of the victims, but the madmen he stopped.

John and Martha were reminders for Bruce, but the villains were reminders for Batman. Dick faced the screen again and started to type, slowly and deliberately.

**5-6-3-2-4-4-5-5**

**J-O-E-C-H-I-L-L**

He pressed enter, and the screen flared to life. Dick worked quickly, remembering Bruce would be home soon. He searched for anything related to Zucco. There was actually a lot. He stared at the files. There wasn’t time to memorize it all, not that he’d even remember it all. But he couldn’t exactly email it. Dick glanced around, feeling desperate. There was drawer under the keyboard, and he yanked it open.

Inside it was surprisingly mundane for a vigilante’s desk drawer. Paper, pens, the normal bits and pieces people shoved into drawers to simply keep somewhere out of sight. But there were also several black USB’s. Dick grabbed one, attached it to the computer, and moved the files over. When it finished loading he stuffed the drive in his pocket and shut the computer down. He was making his way back to the elevator when it suddenly started up. The platform ascended into the shaft, disappearing from view.

Bruce was back, and Batman had an early shift.

But Dick didn’t want Bruce knowing he’d discovered his secret, not yet. He had to catch Zucco first. Doing the first thing he could think of, Dick ran to a staircase and climbed up to the highest platform, giving him a bird’s eye view of the cave. It was amazing, and from up there he could better see the bats hanging from the ceiling. It didn’t help much, since he still needed a way out.

Dick ran along the balcony, rounding the cave corner. He was faced with a plethora of vehicles. What looked like a submarine suspended above the wide, and probably deep river at the bottom of the cave. _Three_ planes on rounded platforms, and what looked to be two more Batmobiles, one of them looking a little worse for wear. And straight ahead was a stair case, disappearing into the rock. Dick glanced back before darting forwards.

Small lights along the floor guided him along. The steps started out flat and long, gently sloping up as they curved back towards the main part of the cave, but remained separated by a rocky wall. As the steps grew closer together and taller, more closely resembling a normal staircase, he felt the vibrations of the elevator. Dick reached the top of the staircase and was faced with a wooden panel. He pushed it gently, and there was a soft _thunk_ as it moved forwards, barely an inch. He couldn’t push it anymore, and instead slid it sideways.

Dick stepped out into a thankfully empty room that he only vaguely recognized. It was one of the manor’s many less used sitting room’s, on the second floor. If he remembered correctly, it was actually very close to his room. The entrance close behind him, and he looked at the grandfather clock that now hid the staircase. It was broken, and the hands were stuck on ten eighteen.

Dick leaned back, pressing his shoulder against the clock, and breathed deeply. His fingers curled around the USB stick in his pocket. Batman would have to start patrol in a few hours, and Alfred would go to bed. It was then that he would make his move. Dick moved quickly and silently to his bedroom, hiding the USB under his pillow. He opened the old wardrobe in the corner and took out his Flying Grayson costume. He separated the vest from the rest of it and carefully pulled at the stitches until there was no longer a yellow G in the black circle on his chest. He grabbed a black t-shirt, and a pair of shorts, laying everything out on his bed.

All Dick needed now was a mask.


	20. Who is Richard Grayson?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 20

**|August 3 rd**

**|11:24 pm**

The young woman checked the storefronts flanking the alleyway, confirming she was in the right place. This wasn’t Amelia’s first time succumbing to her vices, but this was a new source. She strode into the shadows, spotting the hooded figure hugging the wall. The man turned towards her, giving her a thorough once over.

“Craig sent you?” He asked.

Amelia nodded. The exchange was quick, over in a matter of seconds. Hands darted in and out of pockets, money slipping between fingers, and a bag of white powder passed between them. They both nodded, but before either person could walk away, something was thrown from the rooftop. They yelped and jumped apart, staring at the bat shaped shuriken stuck in the bricks.

“Shit, it’s the bat!” The dealer shouted. Amelia bolted, barely making it three feet before a blow to the head sent her sprawling. She was left struggling to rise while the dealer made a break for it. He wasn’t even halfway to the mouth of the alley before a figure leapt from the shadows and delivered a potentially lethal kick to the throat.

The dealer stumbled back, coughing, gagging, and gasping for breath. He tripped over a brick but didn’t fall. Amelia was too dazed to make the action out clearly, could but hear the sickening crack of a head being slammed against stone, and the thud of a body falling.

Finally able to stand up, all she saw was the slumped, possibly lifeless body of the dealer. For a brief near delusional moment she thought Batman would leave her alone. Her hopes were rightly dashed when something slashed across her leg. She crumpled, hand flying to the wound, and started to drag herself along the ground. A weight on her back, presumably a boot, stopped her.

“He’s the guy selling drugs! Get him!” Amelia shouted. Her arms were pulled behind her back, a little too far, and they burned as her hands were tied together. It felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. A foot was slipped under her stomach and she was flipped over. The young woman started to squirm, then stilled out of surprise when she saw who her attacker was.

“What the hell?” It was not, in fact, the Batman. The figure was short, wearing a bright red vest, and there was a slash of dark paint across his face in place of a mask. “You’re not Batman, you’re just a kid!”

“And you’re Amelia Rose,” the kid hissed. With his young, high voice it shouldn’t have sounded intimidating at all. But something about his demeanor, the way he stood ready for an attack, and the bloody pocket knife in his hand had Amelia scared despite his small, almost tiny stature. Still, he was just a kid, and she was nearly thirty. It was pathetic he’d already managed to restrain her.

“And you’re dead, kid,” Amelia spat. She kicked at him and rolled away, pushing herself onto her knees. She was met with a kick to the stomach and a punch to the face, both surprisingly strong. Her next attempt at resistance was met with a knife at her throat.

Child or no, there would be no recovering from that.

“Amelia Rose,” the kid repeated, blue eyes shining with fury. “Tell me about your uncle.”

…

**|August 4 th**

**|7:37 am**

Dick had worked up a morning routine during his short tenure at Wayne Manor. Eat breakfast, clean up his bowl while ignoring Alfred’s protests, and find a little used room to train. In a mansion this large, there was an abundance of those. Dick was determined to keep his skills up for the day Wilson came for him. He wouldn’t want to be slacking at all when it comes.

On a normal day Dick would stretch, practice his ground level acrobatics – which he recently learned was gymnastics in English – followed by conditioning exercises, hand-to-hand combinations, and knife work. Yesterday he’d added shuriken throwing to the list, although he went to the sylvan garden for that. He’d only taken one shuriken from the Batcave, not wanting to risk discovery. Although Batman was probably meticulous enough to notice eventually. Dick gave it four more days, at most.

That’s what the little acrobat did on a normal morning, eventually moving on to his research. Today he’d woken up early in the hopes of finishing his routine sooner and working on his search for Zucco longer. Amelia had been more than willing to spill about her uncle’s activities while he’s ducking the law. Dick figured all he needed was one more easily convinced source and he’d have the mob boss nailed down. Or maybe another visit to the Batcave. There was a chance Bruce had updated his computer.

Waking up early meant breakfast with Bruce, since he seemed to leave for work later on Monday’s. Probably because of all the extra weekend vigilante work. Just like last time, it was a quiet meal, and Dick was intent on slipping off without a word passing between them. He’d made it to the bottom of the stairs when he heard Bruce.

Dick considered for a moment that the man was simply heading out, since the front door was ten feet to his right. But he doubted it was true. He was proven right when a warm, almost comforting hand dropped settled on his head. It felt so much like what his father used to do. When Dick successfully demonstrated a new acrobatic move, or showed off something he’d learned during a study session, his father would always ruffle his air and say how proud he was.

Dick felt guilty for wanting to lean into the touch, and resisted the urge. Although he was thankful Bruce hadn’t grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Yeah?” Dick asked, turning to face his guardian.

“We need to talk about school,” Bruce said, making Dick pause. He’d never gone to school before. His family taught him from their trailer, and Dean didn’t care at all. The detention centre provided what Dick supposed were supplementary lessons, but they barely covered the basis. He learned more from Rose than he did from the instructors there.

“You’re seven years old. Most kids would have started school last year.”

“Uh-huh.” Dick nodded.

“School starts in September, and you’ll be taking a placement test to see where you stand. Are you okay with that?” Bruce asked, crouching down to his level.

Dick was surprised by the level of earnestness in Bruce’s voice. It went against everything he’d assumed about the man so far, which meant there was something more to the question. He mulled it over, spitting out every possible scenario and twisted thought he could think of. A placement test would tell whether he was smart enough to be in the proper grade, or needed to be held back. With Bruce Wayne’s money, Dick would probably be going to an expensive school. Maybe this was another media grab. Bruce would seem extra charitable if Dick turned out to be an idiot. Or maybe Bruce would toss him out if that were the case. A stupid ward would be bad press.

Either Bruce would keep him, providing Dick with a place to stay and unknowing access to otherwise impossible to find tools and information for a little while longer, or at least until he finally reached his senses. Or Bruce would give him back. Any media interest about Dick would die down, and Wilson would rescue him, then he could focus all his attention on the search for Zucco. Both situations provided Dick with different benefits.

“Okay,” Dick agreed. Bruce sighed with relief then reached out, brushing his thumb along the scar under Dick’s eye. The young boy flinched away, nearly tripping on the stairs, and Bruce pulled back.

“Good. I’ll arrange a date for the test.” The billionaire nodded, stood, and went to collect his briefcase while Dick slipped upstairs. If Bruce did decide to keep him, school would certainly be an interesting experience.

…

Bruce only had one thing on his mind during the drive to Wayne Enterprises that morning. Richard Grayson. He was a little ashamed to admit he’d hardly interacted with the boy since his coming to the Wayne household. The idea of taking him in had formed the moment the boy’s family fell. Watching the child wail over their battered bodies had resonated with something deep within the billionaire. In that instance, they were the same person. It wasn’t Richard Grayson weeping over five corpses, but a young Bruce Wayne crying over two.

But when the dust settled and the circus was forced to move, Bruce realized something very important. He was in no way equipped to raise a child. His money would assure Richard had everything he ever wanted, but Bruce himself wasn’t prepared to be a parent. Still, a very large part of him wanted Richard in his home, where Bruce could watch over him himself. He’d approached Richard’s social worker with that very intention, but ended up learning he’d already been placed in a new home.

A man just breaching thirty-nine years of age, he’d taken in many children over the years since becoming a foster parent. None of the kids had stayed permanently, but Ms. Kincaid informed Bruce they’d all been happy. His vigilante side wanted to investigate immediately, see if these findings were true. He’d resisted the urge and opted instead to ask Richard himself how his new home was. If Richard was unhappy, then Bruce would vie for guardianship immediately. But the little acrobat had assured him he was happy, and Bruce let it drop.

He’d been horrified to learn Richard was in the juvenile detention centre. Even worse, he hadn’t discovered it himself. Bruce had to be _told_ by someone. A random teenager, no less. Already in his four years as Batman he’d seen some interesting things, but the entire interaction left him baffled.

Batman had been on patrol when a figure in baggy clothes approached, dragging a bloodied cop behind him. The cop was thrown at his feet, and the figure, revealed to be a teenage boy, starting ranting and shouting at Batman. At the end of the rant, the boy told him look into the detention centre, and disappeared. Bruce didn’t know where the teen had come from, who he was, or where he was now.

When asked for an identity, the boy only said he was “one pissed off bird.”

The next day, Bruce checked with juvenile facility, and found Richard Grayson’s name among the list of detainees. He moved forward with the guardianship process immediately, but it had taken a while, and by the time Bruce had all the proper legal work out of the way, Richard was in solitary confinement for attacking his cellmate.

Bruce could see the anger boiling under the young boy’s surface, and after their conversation as Batman and Richard, he knew the boy needed help. But Bruce wasn’t sure how to go about doing that. He’d noticed a few things during their spare moments together. He had yet to see Richard without some kind of long sleeves, he also noticed the way the boy flinched if he was grabbed on the shoulder. There was really only one explanation.

Richard had been abused. The Grayson’s were contenders in the big question of ‘who’, but thought it unlikely. Dean was the next best bet, which enraged Bruce more. But that man was missing, and he couldn’t prove anything without a statement from Richard. Mistreatment at the detention centre was highly possible as well, which would explain Richard’s explosion.

Bruce sighed, parking in the garage beneath Wayne Enterprises, and ran a hand along his face. What Richard did to that boy was horrible. The billionaire attributed it to months of suppressed anger and a rush of adrenaline. That was enough to turn anyone into a killer.

…

**|9:13 pm**

Batman had left early tonight. Dick had carefully kept track of Bruce’s movements the moment the man came home, waiting for the very second he would head down into the Batcave. Twenty minutes later, Dick was suited up and ready to head out. He ducked into his bathroom and pulled a bowl from its hiding place in the folds of the shower curtain.

It was Dick’s genius solution to a mask. He’d tried cutting one out of cloth, but it kept slipping, and the edges of the fabric obscured his vision. During a jaunt through the manor, searching for a different material to use, he found an old case of face paint. It probably hadn’t been touched in over a decade, and he had a hard time imagining a young Bruce Wayne, let alone a young Bruce Wayne running around with rainbows painted on his cheeks. Dick took the darkest colours, namely purple, black, and blue, and mixed them together. It was a messy process spent smashing the crayons and mixing them with water. Since there was less black, streaks of colour ran through the lumpy surface. Dick retrieved a paintbrush taped to the back of the toilet, added some water, and started drawing it across his eyes. It didn’t take long, and once he was done he stashed the items.

He paused in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. Surrounded by the dark paint, his eyes seemed to shine. But they didn’t hold the joyful light that once belonged to Dick Grayson. They shone with righteous anger. He finished reading through Batman’s case notes earlier that day, and they’d led him to a potential source. Dick thought it would take a couple weeks, but it looked like justice would be served sooner than he thought.

So what would he do after? The only reason Dick hadn’t run away from the manor was because it’s better than the street, much better. Plus there were Bruce’s resources. Wilson’s promise was to help him get Zucco. If Dick did that without the man’s help, what would happen?

Dick was just starting to like Alfred, but still had no particular fondness for Bruce. He wanted to go with Wilson, to learn. But Wilson might not come back for him for a long time. Until then… there was always Batman.

Dick resisted the urge to rub his eyes, not wanting to smudge the paint. At the present time, he lived for Zucco’s downfall. Once all of this was said and done…

Without the Flying Grayson’s, without Zucco, who is Dick Grayson?


	21. Closing In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 21

**|April 5 th**

**|12:01 am**

Would he still be the youngest Flying Grayson? Or would he be the ward to the richest man in Gotham? Maybe he’d be just another orphan, just another victim of Gotham’s dark labourers. Maybe he’d be with Wilson. Grayson, Wayne, Zucco, or Wilson. Who, in the end, would be the making of Richard Grayson?

The entire thought process was surprisingly philosophical for a boy freshly turned seven. Probably the result of all that time spent with the fortune teller. Besides his mother and him, Madame Tsura had been the only other member of the circus with Romani blood. They weren’t actually related, but the Madame always referred to Dick and his mother as cousin. She followed their shared traditions more diligently than his mother had, especially when it came to things – and people – being pure and impure. The other members of the circus weren’t allowed to touch her, which meant that when Madame Tsura needed help, Dick was often the one to do it. In exchange he would beg her to read his palm, or let him draw cards. Whichever method of fortune telling had grasped his attention that day.

Usually, all Dick wanted to know was when he’d be allowed to fly with his family. Madame Tsura never told him, but would tell him cryptic things.

“You will be a strong flier one day.”

“Remember family, for us, is more than blood.”

“Everyone doubts, but do not be afraid to make your own path.”

He didn’t understand any of it, and still didn’t. Dick wondered, if he were to run back to the circus, what she would say about his future now. Maybe she could tell him who he was.

“Was that the Bat?”

Whatever Madame Tsura would say, it wouldn’t be that. Dick smirked, freezing in his spot so the lowlife criminals gathered on the street below couldn’t see or hear him. Distracted by his musings, he must have made some noise. Any time Dick descended on a shadowy figure in need of a good beating, they mistook him for Batman at first. Until they got a good look at him, then they started to underestimate him. Wilson’s advice always came to mind.

_The moment you underestimate something, you are already defeated._

The men and women gathered below him weren’t his reason for coming to this part of Gotham, but he had some spare time. Dick took out his knife and the stolen batarang and leapt from the building. His fall was silent, and no one noticed the small figure until it came down on someone’s shoulders. The woman Dick landed on crumpled, and he delivered a sharp blow the handle of his knife before leaping away.

“Holy shit!” Someone yelled, and Dick lunged at the voice. Using the advantage of his height he stayed low, slashing at ankles and kicking knees. He’d gone through three thugs when one of them got the sense to try and flee. They didn’t make it far before Dick’s batarang sliced through the air and embedded into the back of their calf.

Satisfied the man wouldn’t be running any time soon, Dick focused on his fifth and final target. It was a boy, a teenager. Tall and wiry with a sneer plastered on his face, which soon melted into a shocked expression. Dick’s eyes dropped from the familiar face, down to the boy’s bare chest, which was visible through his open jacket. On the right side of his abdomen was a scar, earned in recent months. Dick knew what that scar was from.

The younger boy’s gaze fell further, onto his Batman shoes, before rising back up.

“Gray,” the wiry boy spoke softly. “What happened to you?”

Dick shook his head and backed away.

“Nu. Ești mort.” [ _No. You’re dead_ ]

“Gray,” the boy repeated, and Dick fled. He spun around, running into the nearest alley, and clambered up the fire escape. He didn’t stop running until he was several rooftops away. He couldn’t be alive. Dick had watched him die, at had been his fault. But if Jack was alive, then Chase could be too, and Howell.

“Nu!” Dick shouted, grabbing at his hair. They were dead, they were all dead. That wasn’t Jack, just a boy who looked like him. Jack was gone, Chase was gone, Howell was gone, his whole family was _gone_ , and none of them were ever coming back. Dick collapsed onto the rooftop, sobbing loudly.

…

**|2:19 am**

Dick’s hallucination, because that had to be what it was, only fueled his drive once all his tears were shed. He maintained stayed away from the place he’d seen Jack and focused on going after only his intended targets. When he’d caught Amelia Rose the other day, Zucco’s niece has prattled off a list of names. People the mobster trusted. In the last hour and a half, Dick had already confronted two of them. Neither one proved very useful, and Dick arrived at the home of the third to find him dead.

It was startling, swinging jumping through some guy’s window, and finding a mangled corpse on the floor. The body was riddled with stab wounds. Knowing Gotham’s reputation, anyone could have killed him. A crazy ex, a slighted business partner, a random crazy off the street, or one of Gotham’s big baddies. Either way, he was useless too. Dick had already seen his fair share of bodies, what was one more?

It was on his way to the fourth name that he had a stroke of luck.

“Fuck, kid, what’s your problem?” The gruff man asked. Dick had intercepted him leaving his apartment building and dove into action, literally. He’d been perched on a low balcony and jumped arms first at the man when he was in sight. Dick knocked them both into the small, poorly maintained garden patch at the front of the building, and they tumbled through the dirt. Used to tumbling Dick recovered first and dragged the man around the side of the building and tied him to a pipe linking the wall and the ground.

“Your boss,” Dick answered. “Where is Zucco?”

“Tony? Hah, that guy ain’t my boss, he’s my business partner.” The man laughed.

“Even better.” Dick spun for momentum and delivered a heel kick to the man’s chest, making him gasp sharply. “Where is he?”

“Boy, you can’t be more than six years old-”

“Seven,” Dick corrected, but went ignored.

“-and you’re tryin’ to find the guy that, days ago, had the whole city under his thumb? You ain’t tryin’ nothin’ the cops ain’t already done. Even Batman couldn’t find him now.”

“Yes, so I will,” Dick ground out. He glared at the man hard when he just burst out laughing.

“ _You_ are goin’ to do somethin’ Batman can’t? I can’t wait to see what happens.” The man grinned, and Dick punched him in the face, no doubt knocking a few teeth loose. “Fuck!”

The man hunched over and spat on the ground, blood among his spit.

“Wicked punch, but I’ve been in the business a long time. Anywhere you hit, a tire iron beat you to it.”

“And cut?” Dick asked, revealing Wilson’s knife.

“Sliced and diced by a toddler, you’ll ruin my rep,” the man said sarcastically, feigning a disgraced expression.

Dick’s hand shot out, and he nicked the man’s cheek with the blade. “I’ll ruin more than that.”

“You’re gutsy, kid. Ever consider a job in the Gotham underground?”

“No!” Dick growled fiercely.

“Too bad.” The man grinned, blood staining his teeth. “Tell ya what. Consider what I said, and I’ll say somethin’ you definitely want to hear.”

“Fine.” Dick nodded. He really didn’t have to consider anything, only tell the man whatever he wanted to hear. Although he struggled a little with the second word. “I’ll con-sitter it.”

“C’mon, you have to mean it. Say it with gusto!”

“I will con-si-der it,” Dick said more seriously.

“Good. I haven’t seen the guy since he went under the radar, but Tony likes to keep track of his business. Check around the Bowery.”

“What’s that?”

“Worst neighbourhood in all of Gotham, aren’t you from here, kid? Crime Alley is the northern border,” the man explained. He let out an exasperated sigh when Dick still looked confused. “Park Row, boy.”

Dick nodded slowly, then knocked the man out and took to the rooves. He’d become rather adept at running across rooftops but always stuck to the lower buildings, nothing above ten stories. Not that it would really make a difference if he fell. Dick was perfectly aware of the risks. There was nothing to catch him, and chances are he wouldn’t be as lucky as last time and simply grab an open window if his grip slips. It would be the end. That’s probably where the thrill was coming from. Although, if he did have some kind of line or grapple like Batman, he could go even higher.

While toying with the idea of stealing one of _the_ Batman’s grapple guns, Dick flew across the city until he reached Park Row. His eyes wandered over the familiar buildings, purposefully skipping over the one that served as his home right after his family died. He wondered if there were still bloodstains in the living room.

Dick wasn’t sure about the boundaries of the Bowery, although the concentrations of criminal activity would probably help, and decided to work his way south. He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d find that could lead him to Zucco, since the man himself probably wasn’t dumb enough to blatantly show his face. Probably.

Leaping across rooftops and ducking through darkened alleys, and taking out the occasional wandering criminal despite his personal promise of no more distractions, Dick felt very much like the vigilante people thought he was. He was almost happy. There was something satisfying about running around while the better citizens were asleep, and dealing with the unsavory characters as they crawl out from their shadows.

That feeling faded when late night turned to early morning, and Dick had found nothing. Really, he should have returned to the manor already. Even Batman would be done patrolling by now. If either Bruce or Alfred noticed Dick wasn’t in his room… But he was so close. Who knew how long Zucco would hang around for?

Dick nodded firmly, coming to a decision. Until he found Zucco, he wouldn’t return to the manor.

…

**|7:03 am**

Bruce alternated between nibbling on his muffin, and taking sips of his coffee. He’d had a long night. He’d interrupted a major deal that had been brewing for over week, and once that was taken care of, started his normal patrol. It was routine for the most part, until he reached Crime Alley. He spent an hour in the area, and found a surprising number of unconscious, small time criminals. Even more surprising, was the leader of a small gang that had a long history in Gotham, and had been known to work with Zucco in the past. Batman questioned the man when he awoke, but all he did was laugh.

Apparently there was another vigilante in Gotham. They must have started up recently, since Bruce hadn’t seen any evidence of them before, and they obviously weren’t trying to be discreet. Finding this person might have to take precedence over capturing Tony Zucco.

Bruce sighed, downing the last of his coffee, and stood, ready to head to work. He paused at the door and looked upstairs. Richard would still be sleeping, and the billionaire hoped he would remain that way for at least another hour. The boy had been in solitary confinement, for heaven’s sake. That could be a damaging experience for a seven year old child, especially after his recent losses. Bruce wouldn’t be surprised if he was an insomniac.

He’d developed a habit of standing outside Richard’s door after he returned from patrol, listening for sounds of restlessness. Several times he’d glimpsed a light on under the door, and even more so heard the light shuffling of feet. There were few nights so far where Bruce had listened patiently and heard the silence of sleep, last night being one of them. But he wasn’t sure what to do with his knowledge. Richard had a poor sleep schedule, was abused, underwent several emotional traumas, and was now in a strange, empty home with a friendly butler, and an aloof businessman.

Bruce shared Richard’s trauma, but he also had Alfred when he was younger, and the Englishman was already well versed in taking care of him at that point. Bruce struggled with his emotional duties as a guardian. Maybe, once Richard was in bed that night, he would ask his butler for some advice.

“Master Bruce, do you need permission to check on him?” Alfred asked with a slight smirk.

“No, Alfred, I just-”

“Then I assure you that Master Dick would probably appreciate the affection.”

“I know, but – What did you just call him?” Bruce asked, pausing and considering Alfred’s words.

“Master Dick?”

“Yes. Since when did you call him that?”

“Since the twenty-second. I would presume it’s the nickname his family used, and he requested I do as well,” Alfred explained. Bruce almost felt a pang of envy. He didn’t know what to expect, upon taking the boy in. Certainly not and instant emotional connection, but he’d been hoping to provide some sort of comfort. So far Alfred had been the only source of that.

“He wouldn’t stop calling us Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth until I corrected him,” Alfred finished as he walked out of the room. Bruce speculated the stairs a moment longer before turning fully away from the door and marching up to the second floor. He moved almost cautiously through the halls, as if sneaking up on a dangerous villain rather than checking on a sleeping child. Outside Richard, Dick’s door, he hesitated only a moment. He didn’t open it too much, just enough to peer into the darkened room, a line of light slicing through the shadows. But what he saw made him swing the door wide open.

Dick’s bed was empty. Bruce had immediately recognized the lumps under the comforter as pillows rather than a sleeping form. He’d used that technique himself several times in his youth, much to Alfred’s chagrin. There was a stuffed elephant Bruce had never seen before tucked against the pillow, and Dick’s pajamas were folded on the bedside table. Checking the dresser and closet, Bruce saw that all the small boy’s things were still here.

“Alfred!” Bruce shouted as he continued to look around the room. He found Dick’s Flying Graysons leotard, red vest absent, and a quick but thorough search in the bathroom revealed a bowl of what looked to be ground up face paint, and a dirtied brush.

“Yes, sir?” Alfred asked when he finally entered the room, and his eyes widened when he saw the empty bed. “Where is Master Dick?”

“Not here, I don’t think he’s been here all night.”

“What is it?” Alfred stepped farther into the room, glancing at the stuffed elephant.

“I found evidence of a new vigilante last night.” Bruce’s expression was grim. “I think I just found him.”


	22. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 22
> 
> Untranslated words are swears/ insults/ foul language

**|August 5 th**

**|10:27 am**

For what was probably the first time in all his tenure as a vigilante – which, granted, wasn’t that long at this point – Batman didn’t know what to do. Bruce didn’t know what to do. What was one supposed to do when they found out their _seven year old_ ward was running around, taking out criminals. And most likely hunting a dangerous mob boss. When Bruce saw that little boy crying over his lifeless parents, he saw himself. That’s why he vowed to bring Tony Zucco to justice, so Dick could get the closure Bruce never got. But this… this was too much. Dick was _too much_ like he was. Right now, Bruce saw more Batman in the boy than there was in himself.

The billionaire hadn’t sought justice immediately. He’d travelled the world, trained with Ra’s Al Ghul, came home years later a changed man ready to take on Gotham’s dark underbelly. Dick had been without his family for four months. He’d gone into foster care, the Juvie. But apparently that’s all that was needed to change the young boy, but not in a good way. The criminals he’d taken down had been in bad shape, attacked with almost no restraint. It was a miracle none of them were dead. But some of them would certainly never walk again, not after Dick’s knife work.

Batman was in the Batcave, using the city cameras to scan for any figures matching Dick’s description, and reviewing the evidence photos he’d taken of Dick’s victims. Because that’s what they were now, victims of assault. It made him shudder, and he wondered how out of control Dick had really been when he attacked that boy in Juvie. Adrenaline and overwhelming emotions would certainly have played their part, but after seeing this, Batman had to face the truth.

An untamed Dick Grayson was a threat, and Batman had to find him, before he found Zucco.

…

**|11:59 am**

Dick wanted to find Zucco at any cost, but this was testing his limits. Simply running up and down the Bowery got him nowhere. Frustration building, he started rambling angrily in Romanian and French, hissing insults at the streets below. He was perched on the tallest building in the immediate area, which was fifteen stories at most. The Bowery was filled with squatting buildings covered in graffiti, tagged by no less than for gangs each. The only untouched building he’d seen was on Park Row, some clinic. Trash of both the living and non-living variety was strewn across the sidewalks, and it seemed like there was a bloodstain every ten feet. Some of them disturbingly fresh. But Dick wasn’t wasting time with petty crime today.

“Dégénéré,” Dick spat, insults aimed at Zucco, wherever he was. “Futu-ți dumnezeii mătii!”

He glared at the streets below, deep in thought. Alfred would have noticed Dick was gone hours ago, and probably called Bruce right away. But the real depending factor was the speed of Bruce’s response. Based on his schedule, Dick assumed Bruce was already at work by the time Alfred made the discovery. Would Bruce have gone back to the manor right away, or he finish up whatever he was doing at work first?

Dick thought over everything he knew about the man, and concluded Bruce would take his time in responding. It Dick had only been taken in as a publicity stunt, which all current evidence pointed to, then Bruce wouldn’t be in a hurry to get him back right away. The media would have no way of knowing Dick seemingly ran away, so there was no reason for Bruce to put up a front. Although, Dick had left all his belongings at the manor. Maybe Bruce would do nothing, then, knowing he’d return for his things if nothing else.

“Lots of time,” Dick whispered. He shifted into a more comfortable position, feet dangling over the edge of the building, and pulled a pepperoni stick from his sleeve. He’d grabbed it, and a few others, from some rundown convenience store when he started feeling hungry. He stuffed the wrapper in his pocket, intent on properly disposing of it. His mother taught him nature was a thing to be respected, since it sustained their ancestors. The litter covering the streets below disgusted him, almost as much as the scraggly cats he glimpsed every now and then. Cats were bad, impure. He hated them.

A loud gunshot startled Dick, and he jumped a little, almost dropping the remainder of his pepperoni. He clambered to his feet and followed the sound a couple buildings over to the street behind him. There was a body lying in the street. The sound of smashing glass drew his attention to the front of an abandoned store. Someone had punched through the door glass and was ducking inside. A second gunshot sounded, and the person fell. Dick couldn’t see them anymore, but thought it best to assume them dead. He looked for the source of the shots instead and saw a hunched figure behind a rusted out car.

Dick examined their stance, noting the position of their hands, and confirmed they were holding a gun. He crept to the edge of the roof, locating the fire escape, and silently worked his way down. There was a third gunshot and a grunt of pain as Dick’s shoes hit the ground. He ran to the corner of the building and peered around. He rubbed his eyes briefly, smudging his face paint. He hadn’t been to sleep at all that night, but he couldn’t stop yet.

The figure he’d seen earlier, now identified as a man, was still curled behind the car. He clutched his arm, gun lying on the ground next to him. Dick’s eyes went from the gun, to the second shooter standing down the street, and back to the man’s face. He gasped quietly as he immediately recognized the burly thug.

The name was out of his reach. Martin? Mark? Dick had only heard it spoken once, and from the lips of Tony Zucco. This was the muscle the mob boss brought when he threatened Haly. It meant Dick was on the right track, and he could weasel Zucco’s location from the injured man.

Dick lurched out onto the sidewalk, diving for the gun and popping to his feet in front of Zucco’s man. He’d never shot a gun before, for obvious reasons Wilson wouldn’t let him fire one in the detention centre. But he had been shown how. This one wasn’t exactly the same as Wilson’s, but cocking it was just as easy.

Zucco’s man said something in Italian, but Dick didn’t know enough of the language to recognize swears. The person down the street fired their gun again, and Dick could _feel_ the bullet cutting through his hair, possibly grazing the back of his head, but doing no actual damage. Whoever this person was, they’d only get in the way.

Dick spun, planting his feet, and bringing the gun up to eye level. His right hand curled around the grip, finger poised over the trigger, while his other cradled the bottom of the magazine for steadiness. With the figure in his sights, Dick fired. He hadn’t missed his mark by much, judging by the startled, and slightly pained, yelp.

“What the fuck! It’s that kid!” The person then turned and ran. That had been a lot easier than Dick thought. For all his ability and rage, there was only one person he wanted dead. With any luck, that would be the only person Dick would ever have to kill.

He turned the gun back on Zucco’s man, who was staring at him in disbelief.

“Who the hell are you?” If Dick hadn’t recognized his face, the man’s accent alone would be enough. “What the hell are you?”

For some reason, an image of his complete Flying Grayson costume came to mind, with its winged boots.

“An angry bird,” Dick spat, and brought the butt of the gun down on the man’s head.

…

**|1:07 pm**

“Nothing yet, sir?” Alfred asked worriedly. Batman shook his head. Every camera in the city was looking for Dick, but he was nowhere to be found. Meaning he wasn’t anywhere the cameras could reach. There were only three areas of the city like that. Toxic Acres, because the toxic waste tended to corrode the camera, and the East End and the Bowery, the most crime laden sections of the city. Any camera that go up there are shot down with hours. Dick couldn’t be in Toxic Acres, since you needed either a gas mask or antivenin just to survive there. But there was the possibility Dick didn’t know that, since he was still relatively knew to the city, and could be dead already.

Batman decided not to dwell on that possibility, which left either the East End, or the Bowery, which were right next to each other with Crime Alley being the divider. Those were both big areas, and combined it was massive. It would take Batman forever to search.

“Alfred, is Leslie at the clinic today?” Batman asked.

“I believe she’s at the clinic almost every day.”

“Good.” Batman turned on the Batcave communications, and punched in the number for Leslie’s clinic. Rather than the woman herself picking up, it was one of her nurses.

“Crime Alley Clinic?”

Leslie would cringe if she knew her nurses called it that.

“Tell Leslie this is B calling.”

The nurse hummed. “Okay.”

Bruce waited impatiently for several minutes before Leslie picked up.

“What is it?”

“Have you seen a boy, young, barely seven, running around anywhere?”

“Are you talking about Richard?” Leslie asked. “Because I’m wondering why I had to hear about that boy on the news, and why I haven’t been called to see him yet. Better yet, _why_ would he be running around one of the most dangerous parts of the city?”

“He’s been going out at night,” Batman explained bluntly.

“What?! He is just a child, what is he doing running around in tights?” Leslie’s voice sounded calm enough, but Batman could hear the rage building beneath her words. That was the scary thing about Leslie Thompkins. She seemed perfectly calm when she was mad, until she told you exactly what she was thinking. And Leslie was not a woman afraid to speak her mind.

“I didn’t now,” Batman ground out. “I just found out this morning, and he didn’t return to the manor last night. Have you seen anyone matching his description?”

“Half an hour ago, a woman came in here with a mild graze, ranting about some kid. Warning people not to mess with him.” Leslie’s voice had grown soft. “What happened to that child to make him like that?”

“Nothing good, and I’m going to find out. But first I need to find him. Where did this woman see him?” Batman asked.

“Near Crown Point. Get that boy out of there, Bruce,” Leslie said.

“I will.” Batman cancelled the call. He walked past the Batmobile currently occupying the rotating pad on the main cave floor and instead headed towards the hangar, where he kept his extra vehicles.

“Master Batman, may I ask what you’re going to do? I don’t believe you’ve ever gone out during the day before.”

“I don’t care, Alfred. That boy is dangerous, especially to himself, and he needs my help.” Batman walked up to the Bat-cycle, the fastest vehicle he owned.

“I don’t believe it’s necessary for me to repeat Ms. Thompkins wishes?” Alfred asked, moving out of the way.

“No it isn’t.” Batman started the cycle, the engine revving, and peeled out of the hangar.

Alfred nodded to the now empty room. “Bring that boy home, sir. Because whether he knows it or not, this _is_ his home now.”

…

**|2:34 pm**

_When you truly want something, you have to be willing to do anything to get it. Or else you never really wanted it in the first place._

It was one of the lessons Wilson taught Dick during their sessions at juvie. At the time, Wilson had been referring to an envelope stuck to the ceiling that Dick had to retrieve. But the lesson was the same. Dick wanted to know where Zucco was, if he had to step on a few people to get there, so be it. That’s why Marco – Dick had finally remembered the man’s name – was tightly bound in the boiler room of some random apartment building.

The man was heavy, and Dick had struggled to drag him from the street. He’d gone to the closest building and dragged Marco down a short flight of stairs into a humid room. When Dick went back up to close the door, there were several shocked and grimy people staring at him. He glowered at them and slammed the door, locking it.

That had been over two hours ago. Marco was now littered with bruises, a few teeth even knocked loose, but he wasn’t breaking. Granted, Dick probably wasn’t a very threatening figure to a man like him.

“Where is Zucco?” Dick asked in his best growl. The full effect was lost with his heavy accent and childish voice. He couldn’t wait until he was grown up, and he could sound scary like Batman. Or better yet, like Wilson.

Although to be truly like Wilson, Dick would have to stop holding back. He hadn’t used his knife on Marco yet, resorting to kicks and punches instead. Compared Marco’s muscle, Dick wasn’t very strong, But the sheer number of his hits were enough to have an effect, just not the result the little acrobat was looking for.

“Affanculo, ragazzo,” [ _Fuck off, boy/kid_ ] Marco spat, his voice thick because of his swollen face.

“Lo non sono un bambino,” [ _I’m not a kid_ ] Dick countered. Marco jerked in surprise, and Dick was pleased to see the man impressed with his Italian. His hand dropped to his pocket, where Wilson’s knife was. The threat had worked on Zucco’s niece, no reason it couldn’t work on his henchman too.

“Where is he?” Dick repeated, pressing the knife’s edge against his throat.

“Ragazzo, you’re not gonna to do it.” Marco chuckled.

Dick scowled and pressed the blade a little harder. Marco stopped laughing, but that was it.

“You don’t want to mess with Tony, not when he’s pissed and on the run. Like I said, affanculo.” Marco spat in his face, and Dick’s hand twitched, drawing blood.

“Cazzo! Alright, piccino, I’ll tell you. Take away the knife.”

Dick didn’t move.

“Capo is fleeing Gotham for a little while, until the heat dies down. A business partner sent a car from Metropolis. They’re meeting outside the Cloyster Woods. Edge of the circus grounds.”

“Graze.” [ _Thank_ _you_ ] Dick smiled and removed the knife, tucking it back into his pocket, and marching up the stairs.

“Hey! Ehi, raggazzo! Aspetta! Untie me!” Marco howled. “Figlio bastardo!”

Dick strode out the door, stopping briefly before the handful of people squatting in the hallway. He nodded towards the door. “He’s with Zucco.”

Wolfish grins spread across their dirty faces, knives thrust out like claws, eyes betraying their hunger. The pack of feral waifs descended on the offered meal, while Dick set out to finish his own hunt.


	23. I Am Robin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth of Robin - 23

**|August 5 th**

**|4:56 pm**

Dick had been busy. Batman questioned everyone he could and, partially shocked by the vengeful vigilante appearing in daylight, answers were given quickly and willingly. Lots of people had seen a small, black-haired boy scurrying around, a dark slash across his eyes, and wearing a bright red vest over black clothes. Many people pointed him in the direction of an apartment building, where he found Zucco’s bodyguard and right hand man. Broken, bloody, beaten, but alive. At first Batman thought it had all been Dick’s handiwork, which horrified him. But he soon learned the building’s residents had literally taken a stab at the man themselves. It was a big relief.

The only problem was, after scaring off the would-be murderers, Marco was still unconscious. Batman needed to know what the bodyguard had told Dick in order to find the boy, but that would be impossible in his current state. With few other options, Batman was forced to bring Marco to the Batcave, where he could revive him with smelling salts.

Batman didn’t like how long it took them to get there. The Bat-cycle wasn’t designed to take passengers, and he’d been forced to drive slower than normal to maintain reasonable balance with an unconscious body thrown across the back. It was a miracle the thug never fell off and rolled into traffic. As it was, Batman hoped Marco didn’t have a concussion. He had been unconscious for a long time, which didn’t bode well.

“Sir, did you find him?” Alfred asked, a worried twinge in his voice, as the Bat-cycle screeched to a halt.

“No,” Batman huffed, dismounting the bike and dragging Marco towards the medical bay. Batman threw him up onto the pristine bed and tied him down with the cuffs reserved for fear toxin related incidents. He checked to make sure everything was secure before holding the strong smelling rock under Marco’s nose. Marco jerked and grunted, slowly opening his eyes.

“What did you tell the boy?” Batman growled.

Marco blinked, eyes slowly widening as he realized just who was questioning him, and struggled for a moment against his restraints. He stopped when he realized it was useless.

“What did you say to the boy?” Batman repeated.

“Exactly… what he wanted to hear.” Marco gasped, finally feeling the pain of his injuries. He was bleeding out, slowly. If he didn’t get medical attention, he would probably die.

“And what is that?”

“Like I’ll… tell… you.”

Batman slammed his fist onto the metal table by the bed, making Marco flinch from the loud noise. He definitely had a concussion, but his memory seemed relatively intact. It was his personality that was a problem.

“You _will_ tell me what you said,” Batman said.

“No… I won’t.” Marco chuckled. A trickle of blood fell from the corner of his lip, and his laugh quickly turned into a hacking cough. “You can’t… do anything to… me. You do nothing? I die. You do… something? I… die faster. It makes no difference.”

“You’ll find that it does,” Batman threatened.

“It makes you angry… doesn’t it? The kid… can do… what Batman can’t. _He’s_ willing to.”

“To do what?” Batman asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Let someone… die.”

…

**|6:02 pm**

Dick hesitated at the edge of the massive field. It had taken him a while, a couple of hours in fact, to reach the worn out grounds. Traversing a city on foot wasn’t easy. Especially when the buildings got too tall, and he was forced to the ground, slinking between shadows so normal people wouldn’t notice him. There was one moment when he worried a little red headed girl had seen him, but she said nothing, and he’d moved on. He made the journey without stopping once, until now.

In all of Gotham, this was the only place for a circus to set up. The field was wide, at the edge of the city, and could probably fit up to three big tops. There were patches of dirt, worn down over decades of marching troupes and idle spectators stomping along the ground. Dusty paths cutting through the grass. Flanking it on one side were the tracks, where trains would park themselves. At Haley’s, they always used the same set up. On the first set of tracks, were the storage trailers, to make moving gear back and forth easier. Depending on how much room there was, the animal trailers would be there was well. If the track wasn’t lock enough, the animals were moved back one. The trailers for living were always on the last track to be used. When they stayed somewhere like Gotham, when three lines were required, Dick, Johnny, and the other circus kids would run along the rooves. But only the Graysons could manage the jump from one train of cars to the other.

On the other side of the field were the woods Marco spoke of, where Zucco would be making his escape. Dick didn’t expect that to happen until darkness fell, and wanted to be waiting and ready for the mobster.

But first, he would have to step onto the field. Dick shuffled his feet in the grass, lifting one before setting it back down again. He never liked seeing an empty circus ground, it always looked wrong. Knowing his family had been here only months ago did nothing to help. Dick slid his shoe across the grass until he was toeing the dirt. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and stepped forwards.

Nothing happened.

Not that he really expected something to happen, but he wished. Maybe Haley’s Circus would shimmer into view, like a mirage, only real. Or the big top would rise out of the ground, and with it all the smaller attractions. Or maybe he would wake up, and realize this had all been a dream. His family was safe, alive, and Tony Zucco was just a thing created for his nightmares.

But nothing happened.

He moved forwards, sticking to the dirt paths. Walking between what would have been the fortune teller’s tent, and the strong man’s stage. He passed the popcorn vendor and ducked behind the game stand, walking all the way around the largest circle of dirt until he reached the back. From there, a trodden path led towards the train tracks. Dick planted himself firmly in what would have been the big top’s back entrance. He looked up, almost expecting to see the striped red and white roof, coloured spotlights dancing and swaying across it. His eyes trailed downwards, following what would have been the main support post, until they settled on the centre of the ring.

For a moment, he could see sand stained red. Then he blinked and it was gone. Dick shuddered, rubbing his arms and feeling Gotham’s chill, even though it was still summer. He didn’t cry.

Rubbing his knuckles, because hitting so many people without some kind of gloves or bindings really wasn’t good, he turned away and headed towards Cloyster Woods. He found a likeable tree and scaled it, settling into a spot concealed enough that he wouldn’t be seen from below, but he could still observe. The sun would be setting in a couple of hours. Until then, all he could do was wait.

...

Marco was right, Batman wasn’t willing to let him die. The thug passed out without giving him any information, and Alfred called Leslie while Batman set out again. There was no guarantee Dick would even be in the Bowery anymore, but it was he didn’t have any other leads, and it would be getting dark soon.

As he drove, Batman flicked on his radio interceptor, hacking onto the police frequency. Right around now was usually when crime starting picking up, in the measly hours between day and night when many criminals assumed Batman wouldn’t be patrolling yet. Most of what he heard was idle chatter. A few minor incidents were mentioned, but nothing the police couldn’t handle on their own.

Batman was about to shut the interceptor off, since it was proving to be more a hindrance than help, when something caught his attention.

“ _Any updates on that 10-66 called in earlier?”_

_“That’s a negative. They were last seen by a patrol in the village.”_

_“Can I get the description?”_

_“Three and a half feet, dark hair, bright vest. And there’s something over his eyes. Have you found him?”_

_“Apparently not. Hell of a day, isn’t it? When a damn_ kid _is a suspicious person._ ”

Batman had changed directions before the conversation was over. The police were obviously talking about Dick, but Gotham Village was on the other side of the city, nowhere near the Bowery. Not to mention more heavily populated. Batman was thankful the boy was no longer closing in on Crown Point, but he was still a long way from finding him. Too many things could happen between then and now. Whether it be something done too Dick, or something _he_ could do and never take back.

…

**|8:49 pm**

For almost three hours Dick had been lying in wait. He’d grown restless frequently, leaping across the branches between trees and patrolling the circus grounds to occupy himself. But as soon as the sun fell below the horizon, he’d settled himself again and watched the clearing with wide owl eyes. He was just started to shift again, wondering if there was time for one more run through the trees, when a pair of headlights cut through the darkness.

The car drove into the middle of the circus grounds. The back door opened, and Dick leaned forwards in anticipation. Zucco stepped out and looked around. Dick seethed, almost tumbling out of his branch, but corrected his fall at the last minute to land crouching. He’s shoes barely made a sound, not that Zucco would have noticed anyways. The mob boss was grabbing a suitcase from the trunk, and knocked on the back of the car once he was done. The vehicle pulled away, and Zucco headed towards the trees.

Dick scurried back up the nearest trunk seconds before Zucco stepped into the treeline where he’d been crouching moments ago. Zucco dropped his suitcase and leaned against the tree, scowling at the field. This was the moment Dick had been waiting for.

He walked out across the branch, purposefully knocking his heels against the bark. By the time Zucco looked up, he’d moved on to another tree, the only sign he’d ever been there a faint rustle in the leaves. Zucco kept his gaze locked on the branches for a moment before shaking his head. The moment he relaxed, Dick moved again.

“What the hell?” Zucco asked as his gaze snapped around. Dick continued to jump from tree to tree until Zucco was spinning around trying to find the source of the movement.

“Stupid bats!” The mobster shouted. Dick had his knees hooked around a branch and was dangling just behind Zucco when he spoke.

“Not a bat.”

“Holy sh-!” Zucco spun around, but his shout was cut off as Dick grabbed the branch and swung down, kicking the mob boss in the face. Zucco lurched forwards, smacking into the tree, and Dick kicked off his back and flipped into the shadows.

“Who the hell are you?” Zucco yelled. He lunged for his suitcase, ready to get out of there, when something flew from the trees and sliced the back of his hand. Zucco’s eyes widened at the sight of the batarang, and he took off into the trees, his pursuer hot on his heels.

Dick continued to dart in and out between the trees, Wilson’s knife held firmly in his hands. Zucco, being stronger and with longer strides, was much faster, but Dick’s nimble acrobatics and sense of balance kept him from stumbling over tree roots, unlike the older man. He would leap forwards, arms outstretched, and slice whatever he could reach with the powerful blade. Legs, back, shoulders. Whatever was closest.

Zucco failed to notice a fallen log and caught his foot. Dick took advantage of that to quickly rush ahead. He grabbed a narrow tree, knowing full well this would tear his palms to shreds, and kicked off the ground. He swung around and let go, flying feet first into Zucco’s chest. The mobster shouted in pain as he dropped backwards, his head narrowly missing a sharp rock, while Dick somersaulted and bounced back to his feet.

“I’ll pay you!” Zucco begged, rolling onto his stomach and watching the trees. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you!”

“You took all I wanted,” Dick growled as he finally let Zucco see him. The mobster froze.

“You’re a kid,” he said dumbly.

Dick didn’t bother answering, just glared at him. Waiting for him to beg for his life.

“I hid from the cops, I hid from Batman, and a fucking _kid_ finds me?” Zucco sounded hysterical, and despite Dick’s momentary sense of pride, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He marched forwards and kicked Zucco in the face.

“A fucking kid, just a kid,” Zucco whispered in a raspy voice, repeating it over and over again as his wide eyes stared at nothing. “I’ll give you anything, whatever you want!”

“I want you dead!” Dick screamed, bringing his foot up. Before he could stomp down on Zucco’s neck a shadowed figure leapt at them and tore them apart. Dick immediately started struggling, straining against Batman’s hold.

“Lemme go!” Dick shouted. “Lemme go! Lasa-ma sa plec! El le-a ucis! Vreau să-l mort, am să-l omor!” [ _Let me go! He killed them! I want him dead, I’ll kill him!_ ] Dick squirmed, and kicking, and stabbed at Batman with his knife, but the vigilante wouldn’t let go.

“Richard!” Batman shouted, and Dick fell silent, but he didn’t stop trying to wriggle out of his grip. There was a moment where neither of them spoke, and the only sound was Zucco rambling to himself about cops and kids.

“You don’t want to do this,” Batman said.

“I do! Am să-l omor!”

“No, you don’t!” Batman stated firmly.

“Lasa-ma sa plec,” Dick repeated weakly. His struggles slowed, and Batman let him go. Dick dropped to his knees inches from Zucco, red faced and wearing an ugly expression. He started to reach out and was stopped by Batman grabbing his shoulder. The reaction was instant. Dick cried out as if in pain and tried to scramble away, but Batman held him in place. Dick whimpered and scratched at the gauntlet. He only stopped when Batman’s hand moved from his shoulder to the top of his head.

Dick sniffed, trembling fingers clutching at his shirt, as he remembered how only bad people grabbed you like that. People like Dean, and Jeremy, and Zucco. Slowly Batman knelt down and started rolling up Dick’s sleeve, revealing old cigarette burns and other scars gained through extensive abuse. Dick weakly tried to pull his sleeve back down. He hated those scars.

“You don’t want to be like them,” Batman said softly, almost sadly. Dick stiffened, then started trembling and pulled his knees close to his chest.

“Lasa-ma sa plec,” he whispered, hiccupping as he held back his sobs. Dick glared at Zucco, reduced to a pathetic, whimpering mass all because he couldn’t understand how one kid had managed to find him. And he had. Dick had found the mobster all on his own. No help from Batman – not really, his files hardly counted – or Wilson. He remembered how good it felt, to actually be doing something. Stopping criminals. Maybe he could do that again. He could stop more families from being ruined like his.

“Maybe… I could be like you, Bruce,” Dick said, and he really wasn’t asking, because it was going to happen no matter what.

Batman for his part hardly reacted to learning Dick knew his secret identity. The boy had only confirmed his suspicions. Exactly _how_ he found out would be a question for later.

“You want to be like me?” Batman asked. Honestly, he thought that was a terrible idea. No one should be like him, Dick shouldn’t be worse than him. But he could help.

Dick nodded, rubbing his eyes and smearing his face paint even more. Half his face was covered in dark smudges, and Batman almost chuckled. _Almost_.

“First thing about being like me? Zucco has to live.” Batman stood, bringing Dick with him. Zucco barely responded as he was bound and thrown over Batman’s shoulder. As they headed back to the clearing, Dick continued to rub his face, until Batman passed him a canister of water. Dick poured some water into his hands and splashed it over his face, wiping away the face paint and tear tracks on his sleeves. The canister was empty when he passed it back. They were nearing the edge of the trees when Dick remembered something.

“He was waiting, for a friend,” Dick said.

…

**|9:53 pm**

“Where the hell is he?” The man parked on the dirt path, affectionately nicknamed Chainsaw by his friends, hissed as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He was supposed to pick up Zucco a little after nine, but the Gotham gangster wasn’t there when he arrived. He decided to wait, knowing he could be breaking a profitable deal if he got impatient and left too soon. But this was pushing it.

“Come on,” Chainsaw muttered. He hated Gotham. Batman was scary as hell, and the only reason he agreed to come was because the circus grounds were well out of the way. But with the clouds obscuring the moon and stars, even this was terrifying.

“Probably suck your blood and eat your bones,” he mused, because no one believed Batman was human. There was a loud thud and Chainsaw jumped in his seat, quelling what surely would have been a very manly cry of fright. A square lump was on the ground in front of the car, a suitcase.

“Finally!” He started the car and rolled down the window. “Tony, hurry up! We’re burning nightlight!”

With his headlights dimmed, he could only see a pair of dark, unmoving boots.

“Stop bein’ so dramatic!” Chainsaw called. There was another thump, and Tony Zucco himself was lying beside the suitcase, bound and unconscious. “Shit!”

He turned his headlights on bright and shrieked at the sight of Batman. “Oh, hell no!”

“Hello!”

Chainsaw shrieked again as a joyful voice chirped in his ear. He whipped around, pressing his body against the door, and saw a kid wearing a red vest with faded smudges all over his face.

“Who are you?” Chainsaw asked.

“I don’t know,” the kid said, and there was something disturbing about how serious he sounded. “But we know who you are.”

Chainsaw had briefly forgotten Batman, but was quickly reminded when a fist slammed into his door window. Chainsaw wasn’t an idiot. He knew there was no way he’d get out of this one, especially not since Tony was already caught.

“I give!” He yelped, raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh. Can they do that?” The kid asked, leaning across Chainsaw and looking at Batman.

“Yes, they can.”

“Oh.” The boy pouted and leaned back as Chainsaw was hauled out of the car.

“Seriously, who are you?” He asked again.

“I. Don’t. Know.” The boy reiterated. He had a thick accent the criminal couldn’t place, but it didn’t sound like anything you’d find in Gotham. “Wait! Yes I do!”

The kid clambered out of the car, somersaulting from the seat instead of simple stepping out like anyone else would. He walked up to Chainsaw and stuck out his hand. After checking that Batman wouldn’t deck him for it, Chainsaw shook it.

“Nice to meet you.” The kid grinned. “I’m Robin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Story Arc: Birth of Robin  
> Next Story Arc: Teach a Bird to Fight


End file.
